'OF 

M 

SANOMQO 


*  •• 


NAPUI.K.ON,   EMPEROR. 

From  an  engraviny  by  Benoist  Je.  after  J.  Goubai.,1. 
Paris  (no  date). 


A  METRICAL  HISTORY 


OF   THE 


LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF 

NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE 


A    COLLECTION    OF    POEMS    AND    SONGS,  MANY  FROM 

OBSCURE  AND   ANONYMOUS  SOURCES,  SELECTED 

AND     ARRANGED     WITH     INTRODUCTORY 

NOTES  AND  CONNECTING  NARRATIVE 


BY 

WILLIAM  J.  HILLIS 


WITH     25     PHOTOGRAVURE     ILLUSTRATION'S 


G.  P.  PUT  NAM'S  SONS 

M.\V  YORK  LONDON 

27    WKsT    TWI'-N  I  •>  -  11I1KI)    STKKKT  -^4     IlKIIKOKt)    MKliKT,    STKAND 

the   jTlniclurbochcr    .Ircss 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 

B  v 
G.  1'.  PUTNAM'S    SONS 

Entered  at  Stationers  Hall,  London 


~bc  Htncfccrbocfccr  pvcse,  THcw  tftocbcllc,  1H.  P. 


PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  no  apology  to  offer  for  placing  before  the  public 
the  following  collection  of  poems.  If  my  scheme  pos- 
sesses no  other  merit  than  that  of  being  unique,  perhaps 
it  will  not  be  wholly  condemned.  The  collection  is  by 
no  means  complete  ;  neither  have  I  sought  to  make  it  so. 
From  the  vast  number  of  poems  published,  hid  away, 
and  forgotten,  I  have  dug  out  and  retained  only  such  as 
suited  my  fancy,  and  which  go  to  make  up  a  sort  of 
poetical  history  of  the  life  and  times  of  the  Great 
Emperor  ;  leaving  behind  me  far  more  in  number  than 
I  have  used. 

Some  years  ago,  and  long  before  the  present  Napoleonic 
fever  had  taken  hold  of  the  people,  I  had  occasion  to  use 
a  certain  little  poem  relating  to  the  death  of  the  illustri- 
ous exile  at  St.  Helena.  Much  to  my  surprise,  when  I 
came  to  look  for  it,  I  could  not  find  it.  My  friends  were 
in  the  same  quandary  ;  they  knew  the  poem,  but  could 
not  locate  the  author,  and  no  dictionary  of  writers  or  of 
subjects  seemed  able  to  help  me  out  of  my  difficulty. 
In  my  search  for  the  poem  wanted,  and  ultimately  un- 
earthed, I  found  so  many  others  relating  to  the  French 
Revolution,  the  Consulate,  and  the  Empire,  which  were 
before  unknown  to  me,  that  I  determined  to  persevere 


iv  PREFACE. 

in  my  hunt  for  these  fugitive  verses,  and  to  make  a  col- 
lection of  those  found,  for  the  purpose  of  adding  the 
volume,  in  manuscript,  to  my  own  private  library,  con- 
sisting mainly  of  works  concerning  the  wonderful  Corsican 
and  his  most  remarkable  career.  When  my  collection 
was  as  complete  as  I  could  make  it,  I  discovered  I  had  a 
poem  for  nearly  every  incident  of  note  in  the  life  and 
history  of  Napoleon,  from  his  birth  to  his  second  funeral, 
and  the  idea  struck  me  that,  by  arranging  the  poems  in 
chronological  order  as  to  the  dates  of  the  incidents  por- 
trayed, and  by  introducing  each  with  a  brief  recital  of 
the  facts  upon  which  the  poem  was  based,  I  might  make 
for  myself  a  novel,  if  not  a  perfectly  reliable,  history.  I 
had  then  no  intention  of  putting  my  work  into  book 
form,  and  it  was  only  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  a 
friend,  in  whose  judgment  I  had  the  utmost  confidence, 
that  I  consented  to  do  so.  Some  of  the  poems  will  be 
familiar  to  the  general  reader  ;  the  greater  number,  how- 
ever, I  believe,  will  be  new.  In  my  selection  I  have  dis- 
regarded the  fact  of  whether  the  poem  chosen  was  writ- 
ten in  favour  of  or  against  the  subject  of  it,  and  I  have 
endeavoured,  as  much  as  possible,  to  use  only  the  poetry 
of  contemporary  writers.  How  far  I  have  succeeded  in 
making  a  creditable  selection,  and  how  near  I  have  come 
to  compiling  a  poetical  history  of  the  "  Man  of  Destiny," 
the  public  must  be  the  judge.  Taking  advantage  of  the 
work  of  others,  I  have  merely  filled  in  the  gaps  and  made 
the  proper  connections.  For  so  much  of  the  work,  and 
for  the  taste  and  judgment  displayed  in  the  choice  of 
matter  used,  I  am  responsible. 


PREFACE.  V 

The  illustrations  are  reproductions  from  my  own  col- 
lection, and  from  those  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Carlos  Wilson 
of  Boston,  to  whom  I  am  greatly  indebted  for  the  valua- 
ble aid  he  has  so  cheerfully  given  me  in  allowing  me 
the  free  use  of  his  very  extensive  library  and  print 
collection. 


CONTENTS. 


CORSICA    ... 

NAPOLEON'S  CRADLE  SONG 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY  KING    . 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHANGE  (1789) 

"CA  IRA" 

MIRABEAU  DYING 

THE  MASSACRE  OF  AVIGNON     . 

THE  MARSEILLAISE  . 

LA  CARMAGNOLE 

THE    ROARING    OF    THE    SEA 

(i793) 
THE     AWAKENING      OF      THE 

PEOPLE       . 
AN  INCIDENT  IN  THE  REIGN  OF 

TERROR      . 
LA  TRICOTEUSE 
CHARLOTTE  CORDAY 
THE  GIRONDINS 
MADAME  ROLAND 
DEATH  OF  ROBESPIERRE    . 

MADAME  TALLIEN     . 
THE  GRAND  ARMY    . 
THE  SONG  OF  DEPARTURE 
THE  BATTLE  OF  LODI 

PETIT  JEAN        . 

NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SPHINX 


Anna  Letitia  Barbauld 
Anon.  ... 

Walter  Thornbury  . 
Charles  Mackay  .  . 
Anon.  ... 

William  Ross  Wallace 
Bessie  Rayner  Parkes  . 
Rouget  de  Lisle  .  . 
Anon.  .  . 

Charles  Afackay  .  . 
J^.  M.  Sourigueres  . 

Mrs.  H.  E.  G.  Arey  . 

W^alter  Thornbury  . 

Anon.  .  .  . 

Anon.  .  - 

Anon.  .  .  - 
Henry  Howard 

Broii.  '/it'll  .  .  . 

Anon.  .  .  . 

}rictor  Hugo  .  . 

J/.  y.  Che'nier  .  . 

yulia  Augusta  May- 

nard  .  .  . 

j\fary  A.  liiirr  .  . 

Charles  ^Iacka\  . 


PACK 

4 
7 

12 
16 
20 
24 
26 
31 
34 

38 


46 

48 
52 

57 
58 

60 
64 
67 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  NILE 

CASAF.IANCA       . 

NAPOLEON  IN  BIVOUAC 

THE  BATTLE  OK  ALEXANDRIA  . 

BONAPARTE        . 

THE  BELLS  OF  FONTAINF.BLEAU 

NAPOLEON  CROSSING  THE  ALPS 

NAPOLEON  AT  ISOI.A  BELLA 

THE  BATTLE  OK  MARENGO  .     . 

To  NAPOLEON  .... 

THE  BATTLE  OK  HOHENLINDEN 

i  So  i 

THE   STAR    OK  "THE    LEGION 
OF  HONOUR "      . 

ToUSSAINT    L'OfVF.RTURE 

THE  CONSUL,  BONAPARTE 
N  A  1 ' O  I. E O N ' S  Co N  K  V.  R  E N  C E 
A  NEW  SONG  OK  OLD  SAVINGS 
THE  HISTOKV  OF  HUMBUG   . 
THE  BARD'S  INCANTATION   . 
NAPOLEON    AND    THE    BRITISH 

SAILOR         .          .          .          . 
(>N  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 

D'KNGHIEN 
ON    A    I'ICTI:RE  OF    NAPOLEON 

IN  HIS  ROBES 
ON    'i  HE    RUMOUR    OK   A   WAR 

WITH  AUSTRIA  . 

Till.     (  iKF.NADIER's      ADIEU      TO 

THE  CAMP  AT  BOULOGNE  . 
TRAFALGAR   . 

Bl-.H  H<  E    AUSTERLITZ 
Au>TKRLIT/.          .  .  .  . 

ODE  'i  o  THE  COI.UM  N  or  N  APO- 
LLO N  . 


PAGE 

William    Lisle   Bowles 
Felicia  Hemans    . 
Ferdinand  Freiligrath 
James  Montgomery 
George  Huddesford 
}}  'alter  Thornbury 

85 
90 

93 
97 

IOO 
I  I  2 

James  William  Miller 
Lord  Lytton 

118 

Robert  Mack 

121 

M.  Delandine 
Thomas  Campbell 
William  Wordsworth  . 

129 

I31 
134 

Lord  Byron 
John  G.  1  1'  hit  tier 
Anon. 
Anon. 

136 
141 

Anon. 

151 

Anon. 

153 

Sir  Walter  Scott  . 

i55 

Thomas  Campbell 

158 

]  fairy  Kirke  W'liite 

162 

Anon. 

165 

.I/.  Riehaud 

169 

/>'<?;vr,  Rodct,  and  J)es- 

fontaines  . 
}\'illiam  C.  Bennett 

172 

Walter  Thornbury 
Anon. 

181 
182 

Victor  J/ugo 


184 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  RIDE 
GERMAN  SONG  (1806) 
THE  BATTLE  OF  EYLAU    . 
NAPOLEON  AT  GOTHA 
INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MONUMENT 

AT  VIMEIRO 
BATTLE  OF  CORUNNA 
BURIAL   OF    SIR   JOHN   MOORE 

(1809)         .    '     . 
THE  MAID  OF  SARAGOSSA 
THE  BENEDICTION    . 
INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 
WAGRAM  ;  OK,  VICTORY  IN  DEATH 

SCHILL          ..... 

ANDREW  HOFER 
TALAVERA          .... 
LAMENT  OF  JOSEPHINE 
NAPOLEON  AND  THE  MOTHER  . 
THE  FLIGHT  OF  MASSENA,  OR 

THE  PROPHET  MISTAKEN  . 
INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  LINES  OF 

TORRES  VEDRAS 
BARROSA   ..... 
ALUUERA   ..... 
THE  BATTLE  or  SALAMANCA    . 
THE  BATTLE  OF  V  IT  TORI  A 
THE  MARCH  TO  Moscow 
VIVE  L'EMPEREUR     . 
BORODINO  ..... 

THE  JEWELLED  GLOVE 
THE  BURNING  OF  Moscow 
THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA 
THE  RETREAT  FROM  Moscow  . 
T 1 1  E  F  A  T  H  E  R  O  F  T  H  E  R  E  G I M  E  N  T 
PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA 


A,  L.  A.  Smith     . 
Ernest  Moritz  Arndt    . 
Isaac  MacLellan 
Bayard  Taylor     . 

Robert  Southey 
William   Lisle    Bcnvles 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe      . 
Charles  Swain 
Francois  Coppe'e    . 
Robert  Browning 

Anon. 

Ernest  Mo>  itz  Arndt   . 
Julius  Mosen 
Lord  Byron 
Mary  E.  Hewitt 
Edward  J.  O'Reilly     . 

Anon. 

Robert  Southey 
Robert  Southcy 
Capel  Loft  . 
William  T.  Fitzgerald 
}\'illia»i  Glen 
Robert  Southey 
R.  Montgomery     . 
From  the    Russian    of 

Pushkin  . 

Anon    .         .         .          . 
Col.  Eidolon 
George  Croly 
Victor   Hugo 
Jl  'alter  T/iornbur\ 
Lydia  H .  Sigourney 


PAGE 

1 88 
190 
194 
199 

203 
207 

208 

211 

2I5 
220 
224 
230 
233 
237 
241 

243 


248 

251 

253 
255 
258 
261 
269 

273 

277 

283 

289 

292 

296 
-;oo 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  FLIGHT      ....  Anon.            .         .         .  305 
To    NAPOLEON    FLYING    FROM 

WII.NA         .          .          .          .  R.  A.  Davenport            .  307 

THE  RETREAT  FROM  Moscow   .  Walter  Tliornbury        .  309 
BON  APARTE'SRETUKN  TO  PARIS, 

INCOG.          ....  Anon.  .         .         .315 

THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA 

(1812-13)    .          •                   •  William  Wordsworth  .  318 

SONG  OF  LIBERTY      .         .         .  La  Motte  Fouque          .  321 
THE  VISIT  TO    THE  MILITARY 

HOSPITAL  ....  Walter  Thornbury        .  324 

BONEY  AND  DUROC  .         .         .  Anon    ....  328 

THE  BATTLE  OF  DRESDEN         .  Mrs.  H.  E.  G.  Arey    .  331 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SWORD          .  Karl  Thcodor  Koerner  333 
ON    THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL 

MOREAU      .          .          .          .  John  A.   Williams        .  338 

BLU CHER'S  BALL        .         .         .  Adolf  Ludwig  Pollen    .  339 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LEIPZIG  .         .  Ernest  Moritz  Arndt   .  342 

PONIATOWSK.I     .          .  Jean    Pierre    de    Be- 

ranger      .  345 

PRINCE  WREDE'S  DEATH   .          .  Arthur  Rapp        .          .  347 
P>I.UCHER  AT  THE  RHINE  .          .  August  Kopisch    .          .  349 
THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS           .  Jean    Pierre    de    lie- 
range  r      .  351 

ODE Robert  Southey      .          -354 

LETTER    FROM    THE    KING    OF 

ROME,  APRIL  9,  icSi4           .  Anon   ....  361 
THE      PARTING      WITH       THE 

EAGLES,  1814      .          .          .  Walter  Thornbury        .  363 
ODE  ON   THE   DELIVERANCE  OF 

EUROPE,  1814      .                    .  John  If.  M'erirale        .  368 

MARIE  LOUISE   .                              .  Anon.            .          .          .  373 

ODE  m  XAPOLEON    .  Lord  Byron          .         .  376 

THE  Twc  i  GRENADIERS      .          .  Jean     Pierre    de     />'<•- 

r anger       .          .  .382 

J"-i  I'HINE                     .          .          .  Rev.  Joseph  Jl.Xiehols  387 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE     . 
PETITION  FOR  FREE  ENTRANCE 
TO  THE  TUILERIES 

THE  ISLAND  FIEND  . 
THE  POLISH  LANCERS 
NAPOLEON  AT  MELUN 
BONAPARTE  IN  PARIS 
THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

BEFORE  WATERLOO  . 
THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH     . 
WATERLOO         .... 
NEY'S  CHARGE  AT  WATERLOO 
AN  EPISODE  OF  WATERLOO 
AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATER- 
LOO    ..... 

THE  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

A  VISIT  TO  BONAPARTE  IN  PLY- 
MOUTH SOUND  . 

NAPOLEON'S  LAST  LOOK   . 

THE  DEATH  OF  MURAT     . 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MARSHAL 
NKY 

MADAME  LAVALETTE 

THE  STAR  OF  THE  LEGION  OF 
HONOUR  .... 

DESCRIPTION  OF  ST.  HELENA  . 

EPISTLE  FROM  TOM  CRIB  TO 
BIG  BEX  .... 

To  SIR  HUDSON  LOWE 

THE  EAGLET  MOURNED    . 

DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON 

THE  DEATH-BED  OF  NAPOLEON 


PAGE 

L.  M.  Sargent 

391 

yean    Pierre    de    Be- 

ranger 

393 

Anon. 

397 

Anon. 

400 

Sarah  JZ.  Barnes 

403 

Dr.  yohn  Wolcot 

409 

yean    Pierre    de    Be- 

ranger 

421 

Lord  Byron 

425 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

428 

Douglas  B.  W.  Sladen 

434 

Anon. 

439 

Francis  S*  Salt  us 

444 

yean  Francois-  Casimir 

Delavigne 

447 

Winthrop  M.  Pracd    . 

45  r 

Anon. 

455 

Bartholomew    Simmons 

459 

Thomas  Atkinson 

464 

Anon. 

467 

Anon. 

47° 

G.   W.  Cutler 

47^ 

Anon. 

476 

Thomas  Moore 

477 

Thomas  J\foore 

480 

Victor  Hugo 

481 

Isaac  Mac  Lellan  . 

4*5 

Jifrs.       War  field      and 

Jfrs.    Lee 

487 

Xll 


CONTENTS, 


THE  DEAD  NAPOLEON 
THE  GRAVE  OF  NAPOLEON- 
NAPOLEON          . 
NAPOLEON'S  GRAVE  . 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 

OF  REICHSTADT 
THE  BRONZE  STATUE  OF  NAPO- 
LEON ..... 

THE   DlSINTERMENT  . 

NAPOLEON'S  RETURN 

THE  SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NA- 
POLEON .... 

THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON 
FROM  ST.  HELENA 

INVOCATION  TO  TftE  SHADE  OF 
THE  EMPEROR  . 

NAPOLEON' 


Anon. 

C.  A.  Hurlbert     . 

Manzoni 

Richard  Henry    W'ilde 

Emma  C.  Embury 

An  gust e  Bar  bier  . 
Bartholomew   Simmons 
Miss  Wallace 

Anon. 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney 

Prince  Louis  Napoleon 
R.  S.  S.  Andros  . 


PACK 

49° 
494 
496 

499 

502 
506 

5i9 
524 

523 


LIST  OF  PHOTOGRAVURE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

NAPOLEON,  EMPEROR Frontispiece 

From  an  Engraving  by  Benoist,  after  Goubaud. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  ..........       19 

From  an  Engraving  by  Le   ]'achex. 

MIRAHEAU          ......         23 

From  an  Engraving  by  Le  I'afhejc.' 

ROUGET  DE  LISLE      ..........       29 

From  an  Etching  by  E.  //.  Garrelt. 

Lons  XVI 34 

From  an  Engraving  by  Le  I'achex. 

CHARLOTTE  CORDAY          .........       52 

From  an  Engraving  by  Le  I'ac/u'x. 

RoHESPIERRE        ...........          6O 

Artist  anil  Engraver  of  t/ie  original  unkno'^'ti. 

NAPOLEON,  COMMANDER  OF  THE  ARMY  OE  ITALY      ....       73 

From  an    Engraving  by  J.    />'.    L.    Massard,  after    J.    7>.    /•'. 
Massard. 

NAI'nI.EiiN,    FlKST  I'oNSri.  ........        Ill 

From  tin  Engraving  !>v  Le  l'tii'it-.\. 

I)ESSAIX      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .121 

From  nil  F.ngraving  I'V  F/i'.<i/>,'.' r'l  (!.   Ileriian,  a  fter  Gue'rin. 

NKI-^'N  174 

From  an  I-'.n^raving  I'V  Skeltcn,  after  /'rrvV. 
Xiii 


Xiv        LIST  OF  PHOTOGRAVURE   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PACK 
I.oriSK,    Ut'KKN  <>K   I'RfSSIA  ........        1  87 

From  (in  F^Hgriiving  I'V  Maria  Ann?  Boiirlier,  after  Daliling. 

TALI  KYRAND        ...........       203 

I-  rent  dit  Fin-braving  i>v  I.e  I'lit'/tt'.r. 


223 


MASSKNA   ............     244 

From  tin  Engraving  hv  Fiesinger,  after  Bonne-maison. 

ALEXANDER  I.    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     272 

F'rom  dii  Engraving  i>v  Canion,  after  Kiichetchen. 

NAl'OI.KON,     EMl'l  KOK  .........       314 

From  an  Engraving  l>v  ll'i/son. 

MOKKAT     ............     337 

From  an  Engraving  l>v  Elizabeth  G.  Herlian,  after  Gne'rin. 

Bi.f-ciiKR    ............     349 

F'rom  an  I:ii^ra~'iii^  l>\-  Su'aint\  a  fter  Rehberg. 

MAKIK  I.onsi-:  ...........     373 

F'ron:  tin  Engraving  l>v  Hollinger,  after  Alonsorno. 

Josi.rniNK  ...........      386 

From  tin  F.ir^rtirin^  hv  /),-<m,  a  fter  an  Original  Miniature. 


433 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

The  editor  of  this  volume  makes  appreciative  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  courtesy  of  the  following  publishers  and 
individuals  who  have  granted  permission  for  the  use  in  his 
compilation  of  certain  poems  which  are  still  protected  by 
American  or  English  copyright  : 

Iloughton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.;  D.  Appleton  &  Co.;  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  ;  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.  ;  George  Routledge 
&  Sons  ;  Chatto  &  Windus  ;  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  &  Co.  ; 
Seeley  &  Co.  ;  "\Yhittaker  &  Co.  ;  W.  J.  Linton  ;  and 
Francis  1 1 .  Saltus. 


Xiv        LIST   Or  PHOTOGRAVURE   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PACK 
LoriSK.    OfKKN  OF   Pkt  SSIA  ........        187 

/Vvw  tin  /:n^>;i7'iii^  l>v  Maria  Aniit-  Bourlicr,  after  Dahling. 

T.M.l  .KYKAMt        ...........       203 

/•'/vw  an  Kngriiring  by  !.<•  l'iifh<:\~. 

MACDONAI.H  ..........     223 

/''•<w/  tin  /•.n^i-ii-'iii^  l>v  //<;//<•;-,  af'tt-r  GUHIMHS. 

\1    ivviU'VA  <>1    1 


463 


A    METRICAL   HISTORY    OF    THE    LIFE 

AND  TIMES  OF  NAPOLEON 

BONAPARTE. 


A 

METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES 


OK 


NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 


CORSICA. 

THE  island  of  Corsica  is  situated  in  the  Mediterranean 
sea,  about  one  hundred  miles  from  the  coast  of  France, 
and  almost  directly  south  of  Genoa  and  west  of  Rome. 
The  village  of  Ajaccio  is  on  the  western  coast  of  the 
island,  and  it  was  there,  on  the  fifteenth  day  of  August, 
1769,  that  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  the  son  of  Charles  Bona- 
parte and  Letitia  Ramolino,  was  born. 

Of  thirteen  children  born  to  these  parents,  eight  sur- 
vived, of  whom,  as  matter  of  age,  Napoleon  was  second  ; 
but  who,  in  reality,  from  early  manhood  was  the  recog- 
nised head  of  the  family.  Charles  Bonaparte  died  when 
Napoleon  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  it  was  to  his  mother 
that  the  future  Emperor  was  indebted  for  that  strength 
of  character  and  brilliancy  of  intellect  which  enabled  him, 
alone  and  unaided,  within  the  short  space  of  less  tlian 
twenty  years,  to  transform  himself  from  a  poor  unknown 

3 


4  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Corsican  sub-lieutenant  into  the  greatest  character  of  an- 
cient or  modern  history.  Perhaps  some  of  the  qualities 
which  went  to  make  up  this  most  remarkable  man  may 
be  attributed  to  his  birthplace,  rugged  Corsica,  so  well 
pictured  in  the  following  lines  : 

CORSICA. 

ANNA  LETITIA  BARUAULD. 

How  raptured  fancy  burns,  while  warm  in  thought 

I  trace  the  pictured  landscape  ;  while  I  kiss 

With  pilgrim  lips  devout  the  sacred  soil 

Stained  with  the  blood  of  heroes.     Cyrnus,  hail ! 

Hail  to  thy  rock}-,  deep  indented  shores, 

And  pointed  cliffs,  which  hear  the  chafing  deep 

Incessant  foaming  round  thy  shaggy  sides. 

Hail  to  thy  winding  bays,  thy  sheltering  ports, 

And  ample  harbours,  which  inviting  stretch 

Their  hospitable  arms  to  every  sail : 

Thy  numerous  streams,  that  bursting  from  the  cliffs 

Down  the  steep  channelled  rock  impetuous  pour 

With  grateful  murmur:  on  the  fearful  edge 

Of  the  rude  precipice,  thy  hamlets  brown 

And  straw-roofed  cots,  which  from  the  level  vale 

Scarce  seen,  amongst  the  craggy  hanging  cliffs 

Seem  like  an  eagle's  nest  aerial  built. 

Thy  swelling  mountains,  brown  with  solemn  shade 

Of  various  trees,  that  wave  their  giant  arms 

O'er  the  rough  sons  of  freedom  ;  lofty  pines, 

And  hardy  fir,  and  ilex  ever  green, 

And  spreading  chestnut,  with  each  humbler  plant, 

And  shrub  of    fragrant  leaf,  that  clothes  their  sides 

With  living  verdure  ;   whence  the  clustering  bee 

Extracts  her  golden  dews  :   the  shining  box 


CORSICA.  5 

And  sweet-leaved  myrtle,  aromatic  thyme, 

The  prickly  juniper,  and  the  green  leaf 

Which  feeds  the  spinning  worm  ;  while  glowing  bright 

Beneath  the  various  foliage,  wildly  spreads 

The  arbutus,  and  rears  his  scarlet  fruit 

Luxuriant,  mantling  o'er  the  craggy  steeps  ; 

And  thy  own  native  laurel  crowns  the  scene. 

Hail  to  thy  savage  forests,  awful,  deep  ; 

Thy  tangled  thickets,  and  thy  crowded  woods, 

The  haunt  of  herds  untamed  ;  which  sullen  bound 

From  rock  to  rock  with  fierce,  unsocial  air, 

And  wilder  gaze,  as  conscious  of  the  power 

That  loves  to  reign  amid  the  lonely  scenes 

Of  unequalled  nature  ;  precipices  huge, 

And  tumbling  torrents  ;   trackless  deserts,  plains 

Fenced  in  with  guardian  rocks,  whose  quarries  teem 

With  shining  steel,  that  to  the  cultured  fields 

And  sunny  hills  which  wave  with  bearded  grain, 

Defends  their  homely  produce.      Liberty, 

The  mountain  goddess,  loves  to  range  at  large 

Amid  such  scenes,  and  on  the  iron  soil 

Prints  her  majestic  step.     For  these  she  scorns 

The  green  enamelled  vales,  the  velvet  lap 

Of  smooth  savannahs,  where  the  pillowed  head 

Of  luxury  reposes  ;   balmy  gales, 

And  bowers  that  breathe  of  bliss.      For  these,  when  first 

This  isle,  emerging  like  a  beauteous  gem 

From  the  dark  bosom  of  the  Tyrrhene  main. 

Reared  its  fair  front,  she  marked  it  for  her  own. 

And  with  her  spirit  warmed.      Her  genuine  sons, 

A  broken  remnant,  from  the  generous  stock 

Of  ancient  Greece,  from  Sparta's  sad  remains. 

True  to  their  high  descent,  pre^ei  vecl  unqucnched 

The  sacred  fiie  through  many  a  baibarous  age ; 

Whom  nor  the  iion  ro  1  of  cruel  Carthage, 


A    METRICAL   HISTORY    OF  NAPOLEON. 

Nor  the  dread  sceptre  of  imperial  Rome, 
Nor  bloody  Goth,  nor  grisly  Saracen, 
Nor  the  long  galling  yoke  of  proud  Liguria, 
Could  crush  into  subjection.     Still  unquellcd 
They  rose  superior,  bursting  from  their  chains, 
And  claimed  man's  dearest  birthright,  liberty  : 
And  long,  through  many  a  hard  unequal  strife 
Maintained  the  glorious  conflict ;  long  withstood, 
With  single  arm,  the  whole  collected  force 
Of  haughty  Genoa  and  ambitious  Gaul. 


NAPOLEON'S  CRADLE  SONG. 

ON  his  way  from  Egypt  to  France  in  1799,  Napoleon 
landed  at  Ajaccio,  where  he  had  not  been  since  he  quitted 
Corsica,  a  poor  nobody,  in  1793.  Among  the  friends  he 
visited  while  at  that  place  was  the  old  lady  who  had 
nursed  him  as  a  babe.  With  this  good  old  body  he  sat 
and  conversed  for  some  time,  and  when  he  left  her,  it  was 
with  a  promise  not  to  forget  her  in  the  future.  This 
promise  he  made  good,  as  soon  as  he  became  Consul,  by 
settling  upon  her  a  pension  of  fifty  napoleons  a  year, 
which  pension  was  doubled  when  he  came  to  be  Emperor. 

The  following  is  said  to  be  the  lullaby  song,  which  this 
worthy  old  dame  sung  to  her  little  charge  during  his 
infancy  : 

XAPOI.KOX'S    CRADLK    SOXC. 


Lovely  babe,  my  bosom's  darling, 
In  thy  cradle  sweetly  sleeping, 

May  that  power  who  gave  thee  to  us 
Still  retain  thee  in  his  keeping. 

Hear  thy  faithful  nurse's  prayer, 

And  make  thy  infant  years  his  care  ! 

Heaven  inspire  thy  heart  with  virtue, 
Fill  with  Christian  faith  thv  breast  ! 


A    .METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Make  thee  brave,  aclvent'rous,  darling, 

Always  in  thy  projects  blest  ! 
Raise  thy  soul  'bove  idle  fears, 
Anil  give  thee  all  a  Nestor's  years  ! 

Should  in  riper  age,  his  mother 

From  her  child  withdraw  her  cares, 

Send  him,  mighty  God  !  that  safely 
Me  may  pass  through  mortal  snares, 

And  the  paths  of  danger  shun, 

The  guide  thou  gavest  to  Tobit's  son. 

Gracious  Heaven,  the  fortune  grant  him 
Of  the  patriarch  Jacob's  race  ! — 

Founder  of  a  mighty  nation  ! — 
And  may  equal  rank  and  place 

Be  by  him  in  courts  obtain'd 

As  were  by  Hebrew  Joseph  gain'd  ! 

May  the  Trojan's  noble  nature, 
Heart  of  my  dear  heart,  be  thine  ! 

May  thy  valour  round  thy  temples 
All  the  Roman  laurels  twine  ! 

And  may  science  with  the  lore 

Of  Athens  rich  thy  bosom  store! 

May  the  wisdom,  too,  inspire   thee 
Heaven  on  Solomon  bestow'd, 

With  his  wealth,  his  power,  his  honours- 
Who  a  temple  raised  to  God  !  — 

But  ne'er  like  him  mayst  thou  stray 

From  Virtue's  path  to  Folly's  way  ! 

May  the  gentle  Abie's  mildness, 
Who  the  favour  won  of   Heaven 


NAPOLEON'S   CKADLE    SONG. 

And  the  strength  of  mighty  Samson 

Be  to  thee  abundant  given  ! 
With  Job's  patience,  piety, 
And  David's  boundless  clemency  ! 

May  that  power  which  guided  Judith 
Be  alike  thy  constant  guide, 

When,  Bethulia's  wrongs  avenging, 
She  by  night  undaunted  hied 

Toward  the  camp,  and  backward  sped 

With  cruel  Holofernes'  head  ! 

Of  the  learned  Jeremiah 

Heaven  on  thee  the  memory  shower  ! 
Give  thee  all  the  address  of   Moses 

When  defying  Pharaoh's  power. — 
He  the  bonds  of  Israel  broke, 
And  freed  them  from  his  tyrant  yoke  ! 

From  the  universal  deluge 

If  by  Heaven  was  Noah  spared, 

So,  my  son,  in  every  danger 
Be  by  thee  like  mercy  shared  ! 

Through  life's  quicksands  may  thy  bark 

Be  safely  steer'd  as  Noah's  ark  ! 

Be  thou  from  the  snares  defended 
Of  thy  foes,  concealed  or  known, 

As  of  old  the  holy  children 
In  the  fiery  furnace  thrown! 

Or  as  righteous  Daniel  when 

Contending  in  the  lion's  den  ! — 

Let  the  firmness  of  Saint  Peter 
My  s\\reet  infant's  bosom  fill, 

Whom  the  angel  drew  from  prison  ! — 
Vet,  Great  God  !   proU'Ct  him  still 


10  .-/    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

From  the  sin,  the  dread  offence, 
Which  caused  his  tears,  his  penitence. 

His  be,  too,  the  faith  of  Thomas, 
Who,  when  Jesus'  wounded  side 

He  had  touch'd  no  longer  doubting 
Preach'd  his  Saviour  glorified  ! 

Let  him  share  Mathias'  fate, 

Who  sits  by  Jesus'  throne  in  state  ! 

Conqueror  of  the  offending  Hebrews, 

Titus,  gallant  chief,  were  you  ; 
So  mayst  thou,  my  bosom's  darling, 

Turkish  infidels  subdue  ! 
That  at  length  by  land  or  sea 
All  heresy  suppress'd  may  be  ! 

May  great  Heaven,  thy  sword  directing, 
Make  thec  still  his  constant  care  ! 

From  captivity  defend  thee, 
Give  thee  victory  everywhere  ! 

Till  life's  varying  chances  past, 

Thine  eyelids  close  in  peace  at  last  ! 

In  these  strains  a  love  as  perfect 
As  a  mother's  self  could  bear 

To  her  infant, — God  of  mercies! 

Breathes  my  soul  its  ardent  prayer: 

With  more  true  devotion  fired 

Than  e'er  the  hermit  Paul  inspired. 

Thus  concluding  its  petitions, 
In  a  word  to  thee  it  prays 

He  may  love,  adore,  and  fear  thee, 
Laud  and  praise  thy  name  always  ! 

And  while  here  he  shall  abide 

His  davs  be  blest  and  sanctified  ! 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY  KING. 

OF  Napoleon's  early  childhood  little  is  positively  known. 
Accepting  the  corroborated  record,  as  it  stands,  it  would 
appear  that  he  was  a  child  with  a  disposition  and  a  man- 
ner peculiarly  his  own.  Not  a  loving  or  a  companionable 
boy,  but  rather  of  a  sullen,  retiring  nature  ;  melancholy 
and  irritable  in  his  temperament  and  impatient  of  restraint. 
While  his  companions  were  enjoying  themselves  at  play, 
natural  to  their  age,  he  would  wander  off  by  himself  and 
spend  hours,  with  no  other  company  than  his  own 
thoughts.  There  is  still  to  be  seen  in  Corsica  the  isolated 
rock,  known  as  "  Napoleon's  Grotto."  Tradition  tells  us 
that  this  was  the  favourite  resort  of  the  child,  destined  to 
become  the  conqueror  of  the  world.  He,  himself,  has 
said  :  "  In  my  infancy  I  was  extremely  headstrong  ;  noth- 
ing ever  awed  me  ;  nothing  disconcerted  me.  I  was 
quarrelsome,  mischievous  ;  I  was  afraid  of  nobody  ;  I 
beat  one;  I  scratched  another;  I  made  myself  formidable 
to  the  whole  family." 

At  the  age  of  ten  Napoleon  entered  the  Military  School 
at  Brienne,  near  Paris,  where  he  remained  upwards  of  five 
years.  1 1  is  career  while  at  that  school  is  very  aptly  and 
concisely  told  in  the  following  verses: 

ir 


12  A    .METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

THE   SCHOOL-BOY    KING. 

WALTER   THORNBURY. 

Le  Fere  Petrault  shut  Virgil  up 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  ten  ; 
"  This  little  Bonaparte,"  he  said, 

"  Is  one  of  Plutarch's  men. 
To  see  him  with  his  massive  head. 

Gripped  mouth,  and  swelling  brow, 
Wrestle  with  Euclid, — there  he  sat 

Not  half  an  hour  from  now." 

The  good  old  pedagogue  his  book- 
Put  slowly  in  its  place  ; 
"  That  Corsican,"  he  said,  "  has  eyes 

Like  burning-glasses  ;  race- 
Italian,  as  his  mother  said  ; 

Barred  up  from  friend  and  foe, 
He  toils  all  night,  inflexible, 
Forging  it  blow  by  blow. 

"  I  know  his  trick  of  thought,  the  way 

He  covers  up  his  mouth  : 
One  hand  like  this,  the  other  clenched, — 

Those  eyes  of  the  hot  South. 
The  little  Caesar,  how  he  strides, 

Sleep-walking  in  the  sun, 
Only  awaking  at  the  roar 

Of  the  meridian  gun. 

"  I  watched  him  underneath  my  book 
That  day  he  sprung  the  mine. 

For  when  the  earth-wall  rocked  and  reeled, 
His  eyes  were  all  a-shine  ; 

And  when  it  slowly  toppled  down, 
He  leaped  up  on  the  heap 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY  KING.  13 

With  fiery  haste, — just  as  a  wolf 
Would  spring  upon  a  sheep. 

"  Pichegru,  Napoleon's  monitor, 

Tells  me  he  's  dull  and  calm, 
Tenacious,  firm,  submissive, — yes, 

Our  chain  is  on  his  arm. 
Volcanic  natures,  such  as  his, 

I  dread  ; — may  God  direct 
This  boy  to  good,  the  evil  quell, 

His  better  will  direct. 

"  Here  is  his  Euclid  book, — the  ink 

Still  wet  upon  the  rings; 
These  are  the  talismans  some  day 

He'll  use  to  fetter  kings. 
To  train  a  genius  like  this  lad 

I  Ve  prayed  for  years, — for  years  ; 
But  now  I  know  not  whether  hopes 

Are  not  half-choked  by  fears. 

"  Last  Monday,  when  they  built  that  fort 

With  bastions  of  snow, 
The  ditch  and  spur  and  ravelin, 

And  terraced  row  on  row, 
'T  was  Bonaparte  who  cut  the  trench, 

Who  shaped  the  line  of  sap, — 
A  year  or  two,  and  he  will  be 

First  in  war's  bloody  gap. 

4>  I  see  him  now  upon  the  hill, 

His  hands  behind  his  back, 
Waving  the  tri-colour  that  led 

The  vanguard  of  attack  ; 


14  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  there,  upon  the  trampled  earth, 

The  ruins  of  the  fort, 
This  Bonaparte,  the  school-boy  king, 

Held  his  victorious  court. 

"  To  see  him  give  the  shouting  crowd 

His  little  hand  to  kiss, 
You  'd  think  him  never  meant  by  God 

For  any  lot  but  this. 
And  then  with  loud  exulting  cheers, 

Upon  their  shoulders  borne, 
He  rode  with  buried  Caesar's  pride 

And  Alexander's  scorn. 

"  Ah  !   I  remember,  too,  the  day 

The  fire-balloon  went  up  ; 
It  burnt  away  into  a  star 

Kre  I  went  off  to  sup  ; 
But  he  stood  weeping  there  alone 

Until  the  dark  night  came, 
To  think  he  had  not  wings  to  fly 

And  catch  the  passing  flame. 

"  Oh,  he  is  meant  for  mighty  things, 

This  leader  of  my  class; — 
But  there  's  the  bell  that  rings  for  me, 

So  let  the  matter  pass. 
You  see  that  third-floor  window  lit, 

The  blind  drawn  half-way  clown  ; 
That  's  Bonaparte's, — he  's  at  it  now, — 

It  makes  the  dunces  frown." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHANGE,   1789. 

NAPOLEON  left  Brienne  at  the  close  of  the  year  1784.  to 
enter  the  Military  School  at  Paris.  He  was  then  just  past 
his  fifteenth  year,  the  minimum  age  which  would  allow 
him  entrance  to  the  Paris  school.  Three  of  the  best 
scholars  at  Brienne  were  annually  passed  to  Paris,  and 
the  fact  that  Napoleon  was  one  of  the  three  passed  in 
1784,  proves  the  high  rank  he  had  attained,  even  at  the 
early  age  of  fifteen.  He  remained  at  the  Military  School 
in  Paris  not  quite  a  year,  when  he  obtained  the  appoint- 
ment of  second-lieutenant  in  a  regiment  of  artillery.  The 
year  past  had  been,  for  him,  one  of  hard,  unceasing  toil, 
and  probably  no  lieutenant  of  the  age  of  sixteen  ever 
entered  the  army  better  prepared  to  push  himself  for- 
ward, or  to  take  advantage  of  every  opportunity  offered, 
than  did  this  same  young  Corsican  stripling.  In  1791 
he  was  made  captain,  and  in  1792,  while  passing  a  six 
months'  leave  of  absence  in  Corsica,  he  engaged  in  his 
first  military  enterprise.  At  the  head  of  two  battalions 
of  the  National  Guard  levied  in  Corsica,  he  was  ordered 
to  make  a  descent  upon  Sardinia  in  co-operation  with 
Admiral  Turget.  The  expedition  proved  a  failure,  but 
Napoleon  gained  some  reputation  from  it,  he  having 
performed  his  part  in  a  successful  manner.  Shortly  after 
this  Paoli  entered  into  a  plot  to  surrender  Corsica  to 


1 6  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

England,  and  Napoleon,  having  refused  to  join  him,  was 
obliged,  together  with  the  whole  Bonaparte  family,  to 
flee  from  the  island.  Landing  at  Nice,  this  family  of 
future  kings  and  queens  removed  to  Marseilles,  where 
they  resided  in  great  want  and  embarrassment  until 
relieved  by  the  rising  fortune  of  Napoleon. 

In  the  meantime,  other  events  were  occurring  in  France, 
which  would  soon  change  the  entire  form  of  government, 
In  1 789  the  French  Revolution  commenced.  Napoleon 
then  twenty  years  of  age,  was  fated  to  be  the  great  result 
of  that  terrible  upheaval.  It  is  therefore  not  improper, 
in  a  collection  of  this  kind,  to  give  place  to  certain  poems 
and  songs  portraying  the  principal  scenes  and  actors  in 
that  bloody  drama,  as  a  history  of  those  awful  times  is, 
of  necessity,  a  part  of  the  history  of  Napoleon. 

TIIK    RATTLE    OF    CHANGE,   1789. 

CHARLES  MACKAV. 

Great  thoughts  are  heaving  in  the  world's  wide  breast  ; 
The  Time  is  labouring  with  a  mighty  birth  ; 

The  old  ideals  fall. 

Men  wander  up  and  clown  in  wild  unrest  ; 
A  sense  of  change  preparing  for  the  Earth 

Broods  over  all. 

There  lies  a  gloom  on  all  things  under  Heaven — 
A  gloom  portentous  to  the  quiet  men, 
\Vho  see  no  joy  in  being  driven 
<  )n wards  from  change,  ever  to  change  again  ; 

O  O  O 

\Yho  never  walk  but  on  the  beaten  ways, 
And  love  the  breath  of  yesterdays  ; — 
Men  who  would  rather  sit  and  sleep 
\\  here  sunbeams  through  the  ivies  creep, 


THE   BATTLE   OF  CHANGE,    1789.  I/ 

Each  at  his  door-post  all  alone, 

Heedless  of  near  or  distant  wars, 

Than  wake  and  listen  to  the  moan 

Of  storm-vex'd  forests  nodding  to  the  stars — 

Or  hear,  far-off,  the  melancholy  roar 

Of  billows  white  with  wrath,  battling  against  the  shore. 

Deep  on  their  troubled  souls  the  shadow  lies  ; 

And  in  that  shadow  come  and  go — 

While  fitful  lightnings  write  upon  the  skies, 

And  mystic  voices  chant  the  coming  woe — 

Titanic  phantoms  swathed  in  mist  and  flame, 

The  mighty  ghosts  of  things  without  a  name, 

Mingling  with  forms  more  palpably  defined, 

That  whirl  and  dance  like  leaves  upon  the  wind  ; 

Who  marshal  in  array  their  arrowy  hosts, 

And  rush  to  battle  in  a  cloud-like  land  ; 

Thick  phalanx'd  on  those  far  aerial  coasts, 

As  swarms  of  locusts  plaguing  Samarcand. 

"  Oh,  who  would  live,"  they  cry,  "  in  time  like  this ! 

A  time  of  conflict  fierce,  and  trouble  strange  ; 

When  Old  and  New,  over  a  dark  abyss, 

Fight  the  great  battle  of  relentless  Change  ?  " 

And  still  before  their  eyes  discrowned  kings, 

Desolate  chiefs,  and  aged  priests  forlorn, 

Flit  by — confused — with  all  incongruous  things, 

Swooping  in  rise  and  fall  on  ponderous  wings, 

\Vhile  here  and  there,  amid  a  golden  light, 

Angelic  faces,  sweet  as  summer  morn, 

Gleam  for  an  instant  ere  extinguish'd  quite, 

Or  change  to  stony  skulls,  and  spectres  livid  white. 

Hut  not  to  me — oh  !  not  to  me  appear 
Eternal  glooms.  I  see  a  brighter  sky, 
I  feel  a  healthful  motion  of  the  sphere  ; 


1 8  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  lying  clown  upon  the  grass,  I  hear 

Far,  far  away,  yet  drawing  near, 

A  low  sweet  sound  of  ringing  melody  ; 

I  see  the  swift-wing'd  arrows  fly  ; 

I  see  the  battle  and  the  combatants ; 

I  know  the  cause  for  which  their  weapons  flash  ; 

I  hear  the  martial  music  and  the  chants, 

The  shock  of  hosts,  the  armour  clash 

As  Thought  meets  Thought  ; — but  far  beyond  I  see, 

Adown  the  abysses  of  the  time  to  be, 

The  well-won  victory  of  Right  ; 

The  laying  down  of  useless  swords  and  spears  ; 

The  reconcilement  ardently  desired 

Of  universal  Truth  with  Might,— 

Whose  long  estrangement,  filling  earth  with  tears, 

Gave  every  manly  heart,  divinely  fired, 

A  lingering  love,  a  hope  inspired, 

To  reconcile  them  never  more  to  sunder. 

Far,  far  away  above  the  rumbling  thunder, 

I  see  the  splendour  of  another  day. 

Ever  since  infant  Time  began 

There  has  been  darkness  over  man  : 

It  rolls  and  shrivels  up  !      It  melts  away  ! 


MARIE  ANTOINETTE 
From  an  engraving  l>y  t.e  Yachex. 

Paris,  1804. 


"CA  IRA." 

IN  1790  the  Revolution  had  barely  commenced.  The 
people  of  France  still  had  hopes  of  bettering  their  social 
condition  without  resort  to  extreme  violence.  The  storm- 
ing of  the  Bastilc  on  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1789,  and  the 
razing  of  that  foul  dungeon  to  the  ground,  were  acts  which 
might  well  be  pardoned.  The  disgraceful  and  bloody  scenes 
enacted  at  Versailles,  on  the  fifth  and  sixth  of  October, 
were  immediately  provoked  by  the  scarcity  of  bread  in 
Paris,  and  by  the  defiant  conduct  of  a  party  of  hot-headed 
royalist  officers,  who,  emboldened  by  the  presence  of  their 
King  and  Queen,  flushed  with  wine  and  lured  by  the 
seductive  and  ardent  glances  of  beauty,  lost  all  control 
of  themselves,  trampled  the  tri-colours  under  their  feet, 
mounted  the  white  cockade  and  with  swords  unsheathed 
swore  to  defend  their  majesties  and  to  maintain  the 
throne,  even  at  the  cost  of  their  lives.  The  result  was 
a  terrible  exhibition  of  the  power  of  a  Paris  mob.  Blood 
was  shed  and  horrible  atrocities  committed,  and  the  King 
and  his  court  were  compelled  to  give  up  Versailles  and 
return  ignominiously  to  Paris.  But  still  the  good  sense 
of  the  middle  classes  controlled,  and  quiet  was  again  re- 
stored. The  Fete  de  la  Federation  was  celebrated  on 
the  Champs  de  Mars  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1/90;  the 
anniversar  of  the  takin  of  the  Bastile.  Tallerand, 


2O  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

then  Bishop  of  Autun,  assisted  by  four  hundred  priests, 
celebrated  Mass  in  the  presence  of  four  hundred  thousand 
spectators.  Lafayette,  commander  of  the  National  Guard  ; 
then  the  Assembly  in  a  body,  and  then  the  King,  all 
swore  before  the  altar  of  the  country  to  maintain  the  Con- 
stitution, decreed  by  the  Assembly  and  accepted  by  the 
King.  Everybody  rejoiced,  and  every  sign  denoted  the 
dawning  of  an  era  of  freedom  and  peace.  It  was  for  that 
occasion  "  Ca  Ira"  was  written,  and  it  was  then  first  sung. 
It  became  at  once  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  of  the 
period,  and  it  is  said  to  have  been  a  great  favourite  with 
Marie  Antoinette,  who  often  played  it  on  her  harpsichord. 

"C;A  IRA!  " 

ANON. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right. 
All  will  succeed  though  malignants  are  strong; 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right,— will  go  right, 
Thus  says  the  people  by  day  and  by  night. 

Dismal  will  soon  be  our  enemies'  plight, 

While  Jubilate  we  sing  with  delight, 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right  ; 
Singing  aloud  a  joyous  song, 
We  will  shout  with  all  our  might; 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right,— will  go  right  ; 
All  will  succeed,  etc. 

What  Boileau  said  once  the  clergy  to  spite, 

Proved  him  a  truly  prophetical  wight. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 

Taking  the  old  Gospel-truth  for  their  text — 

All  will  go  right. — will  <jo  right, — will  go  ritrht, — 


"£A    IRA  !"  21 

Our  legislators  will  work  it  out  quite  ; 
Bringing  the  proud  from  their  insolent  height, 
Making  the  lot  of  the  lowly  men  bright  ; 
Truth  ev'ry  soul  shall  illume  with  her  light, 
Till  superstition  shall  quickly  take  flight. 
Frenchmen  ne'er  will  be  perplexed 
Wholesome  laws  to  keep  in  sight. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, 
All  will  succeed,  etc. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 
Pierrot  and  Margot  sing  at  the  guinguette: 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 
Good  times  approach,  and  rejoicings  invite. 
Right  was  once  only  the  nobleman's  might : 
As  for  the  people,  he  screwed  them  down  tight. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right ; 
Now  all  the  clergy  are  weeping  for  spite, 
For  we  have  rescued  the  prey  from  the  kite. 
The  sagacious  Lafayette 
Every  wrong  will  put  to  flight ; 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right,— 
All  will  succeed,  etc. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 

While  the  Assembly  sheds  lustre  so  clear: 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right. — 

We  '11  stand  on  guard  by  the  ray  of  their  light. 

Falsehood  no  longer  can  dazzle  our  sight, 

For  the  good  cause  we  are  ready  to  fight  : 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 

All  the  Aristos  are  bursting  with  spite, 

We  of  the  people  are  laughing  outright. 

We  their  struggles  do  not  fear. 

Right  will  triumph  over  might. 


22  A    METRICAL    HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 
All  will  succeed,  etc. 

All  will  go  right,— will  go  right, — will  go  right, - 
Little  and  great  the  same  feelings  inspire, — 
None  will  prove  false  in  so  glorious  a  fight ; 
Views  may  be  crooked,  but  words  will  have  might. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 
"  Hither  who  will,"  we  hear  Freedom  invite  ; 
And  to  her  call  we  reply  with  delight. 
Fearing  neither  sword  nor  fire, 
France  will  keep  her  glory  bright. 
All  will  go  right, — will  go  right, — will  go  right, — 
All  will  succeed,  etc. 


MlRABEAU. 
From  an  engraving  by  Le  Vachex. 

Paris,   1804. 


MIRABRAU   DYING. 

Two  events  occurred  in  1791,  which  \vere  pregnant  with 
great  results  to  the  French  nation.  In  April  of  that  year 
Mirabeau  died,  and  in  June  the  attempted  escape  of  the 
King  and  his  family  was  frustrated.  The  death  of  Mira- 
beau removed  the  only  person,  who,  perhaps,  had  the 
power  to  turn  aside  the  Revolution,  already  at  hand  with 
all  its  bloody  paraphernalia.  With  Mirabeau's  voice 
silenced  by  death,  it  only  needed  the  flight  of  the  King 
to  start  the  conflagration,  which  had  been  smouldering 
for  so  many  years.  It  is  not  hard  to  understand  the  force 
and  effect  of  these  two  events,  when  one  comes  to  know 
the  state  of  affairs  existing  at  that  time.  It  was  as  yet  a 
question  of  hoiv  the  King  should  rule;  it  had  not  come 
to  the  question  of  whether  he  should  rule  at  all.  Mira- 
beau died  at  the  age  of  forty-two,  in  the  very  prime  of 
his  mental  faculties.  It  is  a  grave  and  an  open  question 
what  course  the  French  Revolution  would  have  taken 
had  this  great  statesman  and  brilliant  orator  not  died  at 
the  very  time  when  his  strength  in  the  National  Assem- 
bly seemed  all  powerful.  Could  this  man  who  had  been 
one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  the  Revolution  have 
checked  it  by  the  force  of  his  eloquence?  Hither  that,  or 
death  on  the  scaffold  as  a  traitor  to  the  people's  cause. 
Gold,  and  the  Queen's  condescension,  had  convinced 

-3 


24  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  Of  NAPOLEON. 

Mirabeau  that  the  Constitution  should  be  amended  so  as 
to  strengthen  the  position  of  the  King.  He  died  claimed 
by  both  Royalist  and  Republican.  One  of  the  most  cor- 
rupt of  men  during  life,  at  his  death  he  was  surrounded, 
at  his  own  request,  with  sweet  perfumes,  beautiful  flow- 
ers, and  soft  music.  Mourned  by  the  whole  nation,  he 
was  accorded  a  funeral  second  only  in  grandeur  to  the 
second  funeral  of  the  Great  Emperor.  Four  hundred 
thousand  people  escorted  his  body  to  the  Pantheon ; 
from  whence,  in  November,  1793,  his  ashes  were  dragged 
and  scattered  to  the  four  winds  by  the  people,  who  at 
the  same  time  burnt  his  bust  in  the  Place  de  Greve,  as  an 
enemy  to  the  Republic.  How  true  his  own  words;  that 
the  Capitol  was  near  the  Tarpeian  rock,  and  that  the 
same  people  who  flattered  him,  would  have  had  equal 
pleasure  in  seeing  him  hanged. 

MIRABEAU    DYING. 

WILLIAM  Ross  WALLACE. 

Why  do  ye  wonder  at  my  wish  ? 

Despite  my  tiger-face, 
Have  ye  ne'er  felt  that  in  my  heart 

There  was  a  gentle  place  ? 
Bears  not  the  storm-cloud  in  his  breast 

The  power  of  giving  birth 
To  rainbows,  at  the  sun's  command, 

For  tempest-shaken  Earth  ? 

Then  gently  lift  my  window  up, 

And  let  the  summer  breeze 
Waft  blessings  on  my  changing  brow, 

From  yonder  murmuring  trees  ; 


MIRABEAU  DYING.  2$ 

And  set  some  flowers  upon  the  sill, 

And  round  me  pour  perfume  ; 
And  sing  the  tenderest  song  ye  know, 

In  Death's  fast-gathering  gloom. 

A  rainbow  from  the  breaking  storm 

Is  brightly  springing,  see 
Its  glories  twine  beneath  the  sun 

Of  Immortality  ! 
O  thus  !  O  thus  with  music,  flowers, 

To  the  Unknown  I  go  ; 
Peace,  Peace  at  last  is  on  the  brow 

Of  storm-souled  MlRABEAU  ! 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  AVIGNON. 

FROM  1789  to  the  tenth  of  August,  1792,  the  march  of 
the  Revolution  went  steadily  on,  with  ever  advancing 
steps,  but  with  comparatively  little  violence.  The  death 
of  Mirabeau  and  the  flight  of  the  King  greatly  acceler- 
ated the  movement,  but  still  the  managers  were  not  quite 
ready  to  ring  up  the  curtain  on  the  bloody  drama,  so 
soon  to  be  enacted.  It  is  true  that  during  this  interval 
horrible  and  atrocious  crimes  were  committed,  among 
which,  one  of  the  most  brutal  and  cowardly  was  the  foul 
and  hideous  massacre  of  the  Royalists  at  Avignon,  which 
took  place  in  October,  1791.  The  inhuman  scene  there 
witnessed  was  soon  to  be  repeated  everywhere  through- 
out France  in  still  more  horrible  and  barbarous  forms.  It 
is  said  that  Robespierre,  then  a  distinguished  member  of 
the  Jacobin  Club  at  Paris,  was  the  prime  mover  of,  and 
took  an  active  part  in  bringing  about,  this  infamou< 
butchery. 

Till-:    MASSACRE    OF    AVIGNON. 

BKSSIK  RAV.NKK   I'AKKKS. 

Robespierre  reigned  in  the  Place  de  Greve, 
And  in  distant  Avignon  his  word  was  doom. 
When  a  band  of  Royalists,  piously  brave, 
Were  marched  to  the  edge  of  their  gaping  tomb. 
26 


THE   MASSACRE    OF  A]'IGNON.  2 

As  they  went  on  their  way  they  sang, — 
Tender  and  full  the  chorus  rang, — 

A  rheure  supreme,  Mere  clierie, 

Or  a  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie  ! 

The  maiden  young,  and  the  grandsire  old, 

And  the  child,  whose  prayers  were  shortly  told  : 

And  the  cure,  walking  side  by  side 

With  the  baron,  whose  name  was  his  only  pride ; 

The  noble  dame  and  the  serving-maid, — 

Neither  ashamed  nor  yet  afraid, — 

A  wonderful  sight  they  were  that  day, 

Singing  still  as  they  went  their  way,— 

A  riicnre  supreme,  Mere  clierie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Saint  e  Marie  ! 

One  of  their  murderers,  waiting  nigh, 
Heard  them  singing  as  they  went  by, 
And  smiled,  as  he  felt  the  edge  of  his  blade, 
At  the  fulness  of  music  their  voices  made. 
"  \Ye  '11  stop  that  melody  soon,"  said  he, 
"  In  spite  of  their  calling  on  Sainte  Marie." 
But  one  by  one  as  those  voices  fell, 
The  others  kept  up  the  chorus  well,-- 

A  r lienre  supreme,  Mere  elierie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie  ! 

When  all  the  victims  to  death  had  gone, 
And  the  last  sweet  music  was  hushed  and  clone, 
When  the  pit  was  filled,  with  no  stone  to  mark, 
And  the  murderers  turned  through  the  closing  dark. 
One  of  them  wiped  his  sharp  knife  clean. 
Strode  over  the  soil  where  the  grave  had  been. 
And  hummed  as  he  went,  with  an  absent  air, 
Some  notes  just  caught  by  his  memory  there, — 

A  r  Jictire  supreme.  Mire  e/iene. 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Mane  ! 


28  A   METRICAL  HISTOXY  OF  MAPOLEON. 

And  when  the  thought  of  that  day  grew  dim, 
Those  obstinate  words  still  clung  to  him. 
He  was  a  man  who  said  no  prayers, 
But  his  lips  would  fashion  them  unawares  ; 
They  mixed  with  his  dreams,  and  started  up, 
To  check  the  curses  bred  in  his  cup  ; 
They  wove  him  round  in  a  viewless  net 
Of  thoughts  he  could  not,  though  fain,  forget, 
As  he  still  repeated,  again  and  again, 
The  ghostly  air  and  the  ancient  strain, — 
A  riieure  supreme,  Mere  cherie, 
Or  a  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie  ! 

Thirty  years  were  counted  and  o'er  ; 
The  lilies  of  France  bloomed  out  once  more  ; 
The  grapes  which  hung  on  the  vines  were  rife, 
Like  the  penitent  man  on  the  threshold  of  life ; 
When  the  Angel  of  Death  with  healing  came 
For  one  who  in  Lyons  had  borne  no  name 
But  "  Le  Frere  d'Avignon  "  for  many  a  day  ; 
Who  living  and  dying  would  hourly  say 
('T  was  on  his  lips  as  he  passed  away), — 
A  rJieurc  supreme,  Mere  clierie, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie  ! 


KOtlGEI     I.K    [.ISLE. 

From  an  etching  by  E.  H.  Ganeit 
Place  and  date  of  publication  unknown 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 

ACCORDING  to  Lamartine,  the  history  of  the  famous 
Marseillaise  Hymn  is  as  follows  :  In  the  winter  of  1791- 
92  there  was  in  garrison  at  Strasburg  a  young  French 
officer  named  Rouget  cle  Lisle.  "This  young  man  loved 
war  like  a  soldier — the  Revolution  like  a  thinker."  A 
poet  and  a  musician,  he  charmed  with  his  verses  and  his 
songs  the  slow,  dull,  garrison  life.  M.  Dietrick  was  then 
mayor  of  the  city,  and  with  him  and  his  family  De  Lisle 
was  on  terms  of  the  most  intimate  friendship,  and  fre- 
quently visited  at  their  home.  A  great  scarcity  of  food 
prevailed  in  Strasburg  that  winter,  and  the  Mayor,  being 
a  poor  man,  lived  in  a  very  frugal  manner.  While  at 
dinner  one  day,  De  Lisle  being  his  guest,  he  sent  one  of 
his  daughters  to  the  cellar  for  the  last  bottle  of  wine  he 
had,  and  when  she  had  brought  it,  he  said  to  De  Lisle: 
"  Let  us  drink  this,  my  last  bottle  of  wine,  to  liberty  and 
our  country,  and  then  you  will  compose  for  us  a  hymn 
which  will  convey  to  the  soul  of  the  people  the  enthusiasm 
which  suggested  it."  They  drank  the  wine,  and  at  mid- 
night De  Lisle  went  to  his  cold  and  lonely  chamber,  his 
heart  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  his  head  heated  with  wine. 
Seating  himself  before  his  small  clavichord,  he  began  to 
sing  and  play.  Finally,  worn  out  and  exhausted,  his 
head  fell  upon  the  instrument  he  was  playing,  and  he 

-9 


30  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

slept  until  morning.  When  he  awoke,  lie  committed  to 
writing  the  words  and  the  music  as  they  had  come  to  him 
the  night  before  ;  then  calling  in  M.  Dietrick,  his  family, 
and  a  few  other  friends,  he  played  and  sang  the  hymn, 
since  known  as  the  "  Marseillaise,"  and  which  was  to  make 
his  name  famous  throughout  the  world.  The  new  song 
flew  from  city  to  city.  Marseilles  adopted  it  to  be  sung 
at  the  opening  and  closing  ceremonies  of  its  clubs.  The 
Marseillais  sang  it  on  their  way  to  Paris,  and  it  took  its 
name  from  the  fact  that  this  band  of  cut-throats  first  intro- 
duced it  into  Paris,  where  it  was  called  "  L'Hymn  des  Mar- 
seillaise." It  became  at  once  the  most  popular  song  of  the 
Revolution,  and  was  sung  at  most  of  the  bloody  execu- 
tions which  took  place.  Dietrick  himself  went  to  the 
scaffold  to  the  sound  of  the  notes  produced  from  the 
heart  of  his  friend,  and  sung  for  the  first  time  by  his 
daughter  with  that  friend  ;  and  l)e  Lisle  barely  escaped 
being  the  author  of  his  own  funeral  march. 

There  is  another  version  of  the  history  of  this  song, 
given  on  the  alleged  authority  of  De  Lisle  himself;  which 
is,  that  the  song  was  produced  in  the  month  of  April, 
1792,  while  De  Lisle  was  stationed  in  garrison  at  Stras- 
burg.  It  is  said  by  a  correspondent  of  one  of  the  London 
papers,  who  claims  to  have  had  it  direct  from  De  Lisle, 
that  the  song  was  composed  on  the  night  following  the 
declaration  of  war  by  Austria  and  Prussia,  and  the  name 
first  Driven  it  bv  De  Lisle  was  "  Le  Chant  de  I'Armee  du 

o  J 

Rhin."  De  Lisle's  brother  officers,  knowing  him  to  have 
both  poetry  and  music  in  his  soul,  insisted,  upon  the  oc- 
casion mentioned,  that  he  should  write  a  new  son^r,  which 


THE   AIAKSEll.I.AISE.  31 

must  be  forthcoming  before  morning.  Shutting  himself 
up  in  his  room  with  his  clavichord,  he  wrote  the  words  and 
music  in  one  night.  The  reason  given  in  this  version  for 
its  name  is  the  same  as  given  by  Lamartine. 

The  following  translation  is  not  the  popular  one,  but  we 
think  it  is  the  one  which  approaches  nearer  to  the  original 
than  any  other  we  know  of.  Carlyle  said  of  this  hymn 
that  it  was  "  The  luckiest  musical  composition  ever 
promulgated,"  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  marked  it  as  "  The 
finest  hymn  to  which  liberty  has  ever  given  birth." 

THE    MARSKILLAISE. 

ROUGKT    DK.    LlSI.K. 

Come,  children  of  your  country,  come, 

New  glory  dawns  upon  the  world, 
Our  tyrants,  rushing  to  their  doom, 

Their  bloody  standard  have  unfurled  : 
Already  on  our  plains  we  hear 

The  murmurs  of  a  savage  horde  ; 

They  threaten  with  the  murderous  sword 
Your  comrades  and  your  children  dear. 
Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand  : 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

Those  banded  serfs, — what  would  they  have. 

By  tyrant  kings  together  brought  ? 
Whom  are  those  fetters  to  enslave 

Which  long  ago  their  hands  have  wrought  ? 
You,  Frenchmen,  you  they  would  enchain  ; 

Doth  not  the  thought  your  bosoms  fire? 

The  ancient  bondage  they  desire 
To  force  upon  your  necks  again. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 


32  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Those  marshalled  foreigners, — shall  they 

Make  laws  to  reach  the  Frenchman's  hearth  ? 
Shall  hireling  troops  who  fight  for  pay 

Strike  down  our  warriors  to  the  earth  ? 
God  !   shall  we  bow  beneath  the  weight 

Of  hands  that  slavish  fetters  wear  ? 

Shall  ruthless  despots  once  more  dare 
To  be  the  masters  of  our  fate  ? 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

Then  tremble,  tyrants, — traitors  all, — 

Ye,  whom  both  friends  and  foes  despise  ; 

On  you  shall  retribution  fall, 

Your  crimes  shall  gain  a  worthy  prize. 

Each  man  opposes  might  to  might, 
And  when  our  youthful  heroes  die, 
Our  France  can  well  their  place  supply  ; 

We  're  soldiers  all  with  you  to  fight. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

Ye  generous  warriors,  still  forbear 
To  deal  on  all  your  vengeful  blows ; 

The  train  of  hapless  victims  spare, 
Against  their  will  they  are  our  foes. 

But,  oh,  those  despots  stained  with  blood, 
Those  traitors  leagued  with  base  Bouille, 
Who  make  their  native  land  their  prey  ; — 

Death  to  the  savage  tiger-brood  ! 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

And  when  our  glorious  sires  are  dead, 
Their  virtues  we  shall  surely  find 


THE   MARSEILLAISE.  33 

When  on  the  self-same  path  we  tread, 

And  track  the  fame  they  leave  behind. 
Less  to  survive  them  we  desire 

Than  to  partake  their  noble  grave  ; 
The  proud  ambition  we  shall  have 
To  live  for  vengeance  or  expire. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand  ; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

Come,  love  of  country,  guide  us  now, 

Endow  our  vengeful  arms  with  might, 
And,  dearest  liberty,  do  thou 

Aid  thy  defenders  in  the  fight. 
Unto  our  flags  let  victory, 

Called  by  thy  stirring  accents,  haste  ; 

And  may  thy  dying  foes  at  last 
Thy  triumph  and  our  glory  see. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand  ; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 


LA    CARMAGNOLE. 

TUP:  tenth  of  August,  1792,  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  The  Revolution  was  at  last  a  stern  and  a  bloody 
reality.  The  massacre  of  the  Swiss  guards  at  the  Tui- 
leries,  and  the  horrible  scenes  enacted  there  on  that  day, 
were  but  the  prelude  to  what  was  so  soon  to  follow.  The 
King  and  his  family  were  driven  from  their  last  royal 
abiding-place  and  thrown  into  prison  like  common  felons. 
The  Temple  was  but  another  step  towards  the  scaffold. 
It  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  taking  of  the  Royal  family 
to  the  Temple  that  the  vile  song  of  "  La  Carmagnole  " 
was  composed  and  first  sung.  It  was  afterwards  sung 
and  danced  at  every  massacre  and  licentious  orgie  which 
took  place.  Men,  women,  and  children,  drunken,  dirty, 
ragged,  ferocious  as  famished  wolves,  and  with  hands 
dripping  with  human  blood,  sung  this  song  and  danced 
its  accompaniment  with  all  the  abandonment  of  hellish 
fiends.  It  was  the  song  of  the  sans-culottc,  and  though 
vile  and  insulting  to  fallen  royalty,  no  collection  of  revo- 
lutionary songs  would  be  complete  without  it.  It  died 
with  the  death  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

LA    CARMAGNOLE. 


Great  Madame  Veto  swore  one  day 
The  folks  of  Paris  she  would  slay  ; 
34 


Louis  XVI. 
From  an  engraving  by  L.e  Vachex 

Paris,   1804. 


LA    CARMAGNOLE.  35 

Our  cannoniers  so  stout, 
Soon  put  my  lady  out. 
We  11  dance  the  Carmagnole: 

Brothers,  rejoice, — brothers,  rejoice. 
We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole  ; 
Hail  to  the  cannon's  voice. 

Great  Monsieur  Veto  swore  one  day 
His  country  he  would  ne'er  betray  ; 

His  promise  he  forgot, 

So  he  shall  go  to  pot. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

The  people,  Marie  Antoinette 
Thought  on  their  nether  ends  to  set  ; 

She  made  a  sad  mistake, 

And  chanced  her  nose  to  break. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

Her  husband  thought  he  was  in  luck, — 
He  had  not  learned  a  Frenchman's  pluck  : 

So,  lusty  Louis,  so. 

You  '11  to  the  Temple  go. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

The  Swiss,  too,  had  a  great  desire 
Upon  our  brotherhood  to  fire  ; 

But  by  the  men  of   France 

They  soon  were  taught  to  dance. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

When  Madame  saw  the  tower,  no  doubt, 
She  gladly  would  have  faced  about  : 

It  turned   her  stomach  proud 

To  find  herself    so  cowed. 

We'll  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 


36  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

When  Louis,  who  was  once  so  big, 
Before  him  saw  the  workmen  dig, 

He  said, — how  hard  his  case 

To  be  in  such  a  place. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

All  honest  folks  throughout  the  land 

Will  by  the  patriot  surely  stand, 
As  brethren  firmly  bound, 
While  loud  the  cannons  sound. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

All  Royalists  throughout  the  land 
Will  by  the  base  Aristos  stand  ; 

And  they  '11  keep  up  the  war, 

Like  cowards  as  they  are. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

The  gen-d'armes  swear  they  '11  firmly  stand 
As  guardians  of  their  native  land  ; 

They  heard  the  cannons  sound, 
And  backward  were  not  found. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

Come,  friends,  united  we  will  be, 

Then  we  shall  fear  no  enemy  ; 
If  any  foes  attack, 
We  '11  gaily  beat  them  back. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 

A  gallant  sans-culotte,  am  I, 
The  friends  of  Louis  I  defy  ; 

Long  live  the  Marscillois, 

The  Bretons  and  the  laws. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 


LA    CARMAGNOLE,  3; 

The  Faubourgs'  valiant  sans-culotte, — 
Oh,  never  be  his  name  forgot  ; 

But  jovially  fill  up 

To  him  the  other  cup. 

We  '11  dance  the  Carmagnole,  etc. 


THE  ROARING  OF  THE  SEA. 

FROM  the  tenth  of  August,  1/92,  to  the  fall  of  Robe- 
spierre, July  twenty-eighth,  1794,  the  Reign  of  Terror  had 
full  and  complete  control  of  France.  Paris  and  the  pro- 
vinces were  drenched  with  blood.  The  people  in  power, 
however  honest  their  purpose,  were  no  longer  human  ;  so 
much  blood  had  turned  their  heads.  Of  those  awful  two 
years  the  year  1/93  was  the  most  marked,  for  it  witnessed 
the  downfall  of  royalty  in  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI. 
and  Marie  Antoinette.  The  army  on  the  frontier  was  the 
only  body  of  Frenchmen  who  seemed  to  have  the  interest 
of  their  country  at  heart  ;  all  else  was  chaos  and  confusion. 
The  government  had  broken  from  its  long-established 

CD  O 

mooring,  and  no  one  knew  where  it  would  bring  up,  or 
what  its  fate  would  be.  Good  did  come  out  of  it  all,  in 
the  end,  and  France  and  mankind  received  a  benefit  ;  but 
at  what  a  fearful  price  !  The  condition  of  affairs  at  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1/93  is  well  told  in  the  following 
verses  : 

TIIK    ROARING    <  >F    TIIK    SEA. 

1793- 

CIIARI.KS  M ACKAY. 

I  had  a  dream,  a  noontide  dream, 
Thrice  it  came  and  thrice  it  went, 


THE   ROAR1XG   Ol-    THK    SEA.  39 

And  thrice  it  left  n  light  ami  gleam, 

As  of  a  purpose  why  't  \vas  sent. 
A  dream  of  mist  and  blinding  ha/.e, 

VVhereout  there  issued  a  drowsy  sound, 
As  of  the  hum  from  crowded  ways, 

Where  streams  of  life  go  eddying  round. 
The  church  bells  muffled  in  fogs  and  glooms 

Faintly  pealed  over  wold  and  lea. 
Hut  clear  'mid  the  pauses  of  the  booms, 

/  heard  the  roaring  of  the  Sea. 

Sadly  the  people  to  and  fro 

Rock'cl  and  sway'd,  they  knew  not  why  ; 
I  could  scarcely  see  them  come  or  go, 

So  thick  the  vapours  draped  the  sky  ; 
They  look'd  half-form'd,  gigantic,  vague, 

Things  of  the  cloud,  but  not  of  the  Sun, 
As  of  a  City  of  the  Plague, 

Where  Hope  and  Healing  there  were  none. 
Some  were  lawyers  \\  ith  wigs  ami  gowns, 

Some  were  priests — or  seem'd  to  be. 
And  some  were  kings  with  tottering  crowns 

And  lltey  Jieard  tlte  roaring  of  I  lie  Sea. 

''  Why  dost  thou  linger  in  the  mist  ?  " 

I  asked  a  sage  of  snow-white  head. 
"  Xot  those  emerge  from  it  who  list  : 

1  cannot  see  my  way,"  he  said. 
"  All  things  are  out  of  gear  and  line, 

Men  worship  money,  their  only  god  ; 
Kach  thinks  himself  alone  divine, 

And  tramples  his  neighbour  to  the  >od, 
Ever  the  weakest  goes  to    the  wall, 

None  of   us  know  what  the  end  shall  be. 
Kxcept  that  misery  must  befall 

\\'e  /ied  r  tJ/c  roaring  of  tlie  Sen." 


4O  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

I  mingled  in  the  priestly  throng, 

And  ask'd  of  one  who  seem'd  the  chief, 
"If  in  the  mist  he  'd  linger'd  long  ?  " 

"  Ay,  long !  "  he  said,  "  without  relief ! 
We  know  not  whether  we  sit  or  stand, 

Or  whether  we  wander  in  or  out ! — 
We  find  nor  comfort,  nor  guiding  hand, 

Nor  any  glimmering  but  of  doubt. 
We  feel  a  quiver  of  earthquake  shocks, — 

We  would  be  bound  and  yet  be  free, 
We  tread  on  the  edge  of  perilous  rocks — 

We  hear  tJie  roaring  of  tJie  Sea." 

A  group  of  statesmen,  sore  at  fault, 

Brothers  in  doubt,  of  different  schools, 
Uncertain  whether  to  march  or  halt, 

Sat  pondering — knaves  as  well  as  fools. 
I  ask'd  them  why  their  discontent  ? 

"  We  want  to  govern  poor  human-kind, 
That  will  not  walk  as  we  have  meant, 

So  deaf  it  is,  so  dull  and  blind. 
We  cannot  rule  a  world  gone  mad, 

Woe  is  upon  us  !  if  thus  it  be ! — 
There  's  little  good  among  the  bad, — 

We  hear  the  roaring  of  the  Sea." 

I  question'd  one  that  seem'd  a  king, 

From  the  vapoury,  misty  crown  he  wore, 
Why  to  the  shadows  he  seem'd  to  cling, 

Shadows  behind  and  shadows  before  ? 
lie  answer'd  sadly,  "  Ask  me  not ! 

I  strive  to  follow  my  father's  trade. 
I  walk  as  I  may — or  can — God  wot— 

Stumbling  and  halting,  and  afraid  ! 


THE  ROARING   OF  THE   SEA.  41 

The  time  is  pass'd  for  Right  Divine. 

The  people  have  ceased  to  bend  the  knee, 
The  end  is  coming  for  me  and  mine — 

f  hear  the  roaring  of  the  Sea." 

Down  there  came,  like  a  river  in  flood, 

A  crowd  of  People  haggard  and  worn  ; 
And  they  roar'd  and  yell'd  and  clamour'd  for  blood, 

Frantic  and  furious  and  forlorn. 
"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  I  ask'd  of  one  ; 

He  answer'd,  "  The  Earth  for  its  children  dear, 
Farms  as  free  as  the  light  of  the  Sun, 

And  fair  partition  of  life's  good  cheer, 
Of  corn  and  wine,  and  sheep  and  beeves ; 

All  that  the  Earth  produces  free, 
Why  should  we  starve  'mid  the  bursting  sheaves?— 

We  've  heard  the  roaring  of  the  Sea." 

The  billowy,  rising,  roaring  sea,— 

The  stifling,  swathing,  blinding  mist ; 
A  Chaos  big  with  a  new  To  Be, 

And  a  ruddy  sunshine  not  uprist. 
Hear  it,  ye  preachers  of  the  creeds  ! 

Take  heed,  ye  wise,  without  a  plan, 
There  's  something  better  than  sordid  needs — 

There  's  a  futurity  for  man  ! 
"  Each  for  himself  "  is  a  gospel  of  lies, 

That  never  was  issued  by  God's  decree — 
There  's  fresh  fair  light  on  the  morning  skies — 

There  's  health  in  the  roaring  of  the  Sea. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

THE  following  song  represents  the  worst  feelings  of  the 
Revolution.  It  was  suppressed  by  the  Directory  in  1/95  ; 
but  during  the  two  preceding  years  it  was  a  great  favour- 
ite with  the  unrestrained  demons  who  governed  France. 
Nothing  was  too  horrible  for  those  bloody-minded  fiends. 
The  inhuman  butchery  and  the  monstrous  outrages  per- 
petrated upon  the  dead  body  of  the  Princess  Lamballe, 
were  but  fair  illustrations  of  the  foul  deeds  committed 
by  the  loathsome  followers  of  Robespierre,  Danton,  and 
St.  Just.  The  regeneration  of  France  was,  perhaps  of 
necessity,  entrusted  to  the  hands  of  men  who  could  see 
no  way  to  accomplish  their  purpose  except  through  the 
guillotine  and  a  river  of  blood.  The  leaders  themselves 
became  like  wild  beasts,  and  when  they  could  no  longer 
agree  they  turned  on  each  other,  and  the  majority  of  them 
were  sent,  by  the  votes  of  their  former  colleagues,  to  the 
same  scafford  to  which  they  had  by  their  acts  doomed  so 
many. 

TIIK    A\YAKK.\I\<;    OK    TIIK    1'KOl'LK. 

[.    M.    SorKlr.rKKK.S. 

Nation  of  brethren,  Frenchmen  brave  ! 
Feel  you  no  horror  at  the  sight, 

42 


THE   AWAKENING   OF  THE   PEOPLE.  43 

When  treason  dares  her  flag  to  wave, 

Awaking  carnage  and  affright  ? 
What!  shall  a  sanguinary  band 

Of  robbers  and  assassins  dare 
To  trample  on  our  native  land, 

And  with  their  breath  pollute  the  air? 


What  guilty  torpor  binds  you  fast  ? 

Wake,  sovereign  people,  quick,  awake! 
To  hellish  fiends  the  wretches  cast, 

Who  long  with  blood  their  thirst  to  slake  ! 
War  to  the  death!  should  be  your  cry— 

War  to  all  partners  in  their  guilt : 
If  you  could  only  hate  as  I, 

The  blood  of  all  were  quickly  spilt. 


Yea,  let  them  perish — do  not  spare 

Those  monsters  who  would  flesh  devour, 
Who  in  their  craven  bosoms  bear 

The  worship  of  a  tyrant's  power. 
Manes  of  innocence,  who  wail 

For  retribution  in  your  tombs, 
Rest,  rest !  your  murderers  now  grow  pale,- 

At  last  the  day  of  vengeance  comes. 

Mark  how  their  limbs  with  terror  shake:  — 

They  dare  not  fly, — too  well  they  know 
Escape  is  vain, — each  path  they  take 

The  blood  they  vomit  forth  will  show. 
Ye  shades  !   upon  your  tombs  we  swear, 

By  the  misfortunes  of  our  land, 
That  we  a  hecatomb  will  rear, 

Of  that  foul,  man-devouring  band. 


44  A   METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

Ye  legislators,  good  and  just, 

Chosen  to  guard  the  people's  right, 
Who,  with  your  countenance  august, 

Our  enemies  with  fear  can  smite, 
Follow  your  glorious  path  ! — each  name 

Dear  to  humanity  will  be, 
And,  wafted  to  the  Hall  of  Fame, 

Will  dwell  with  Immortality! 


AX  INCIDENT  IN  THE   REIGN   OF  TERROR. 

ACTS  of  noble  heroism  were  of  frequent  occurrence 
during  the  awful  days  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Mercy 
was  seldom  offered  the  unhappy  victim,  and  when  offered 
was  so  loaded  with  vile  and  cowardly  conditions  that  it  was 
at  once,  almost  universally,  rejected.  Death  was  far  bet- 
ter than  life  at  the  price  demanded.  To  save  her  father's 
life  the  daughter  drank  a  glass  full  of  warm  blood,  fresh 
from  the  body  of  the  murdered  victim  at  her  feet  ;  but 
her  father  dead,  the  same  girl  would  beg  to  die  by  his 
side.  In  1/93  and  1/94  the  guillotine  could  not  do  its 
bloody  work  fast  enough,  and  to  aid  it  in  its  mission  of 
destruction  men,  women,  and  children  were  gathered  to- 
gether by  hundreds  and  blown  to  pieces  at  the  cannon's 
mouth.  If,  perchance,  any  escaped  the  murderous  dis- 
charge they  were  at  once  cut  down  by  the  sabre  or  run 
through  the  body  by  the  bayonet.  Young  men  and 
maidens  were  stripped  naked,  lashed  together  and  thrown 
into  the  river  ;  victims  of  what,  with  hellish  mirth,  were 
designated  as  "  Republican  marriages." 

The  incident  described  in  the  following  lines  actually 
occurred,  and  it  was  but  one  of  the  many  of  like  kind  that 
took  place. 

45 


46  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

AN    INCIDENT   IN   THE    REIGN   OF   TERROR. 

MRS.  II.   E.  G.  ARKY. 

Unwarned,  upon  the  cloudless  sky, 

A  sudden  thunder  burst, 
Beneath  the  blood-stained  willow  trees 

Of  Brotteaux  field  accurst  ; 
The  fiends  that  fed  on  human  life 

Had  waked  the  cannon's  roar, — 
For  blunt  with  carnage  was  the  knife 

That  deluged  France  in  gore  ; — 
And,  where  its  sanguine  rivers  flowed, 

Discarded,  with  a  frown, 
The  sickle  that  too  slowly  mowed 

Their  breathing  harvests  down. 

And  the  willows  shook  with  horror, 

Uplifting  from  the  plain 
The  twigs  that  felt  the  seething  heat, 

Of  this  unhallowed  rain  ; 
And  slowly,  on  the  quivering  air, 

The  smoke-clouds  rolled  away, 
From  off  the  crimson  heather  where 

The  murdered  victims  lay  ; 
But  still  with  fettered  hands  and  feet. 

O'erflowed  with  kindred  blood, 
An  eye  that  watched,  his  doom  to  meet, 

A  boy  uninjured  stood. 

Javogues  turned  with  careless  scoff  ; — 

"  Well,  let  him  live,"  he  said, 
'•  The  child  shall  join  our  ranks, — come  off, — 

Such  blood  's  not  worth  the  lead." 
Out  spoke  the  bov,  and  each  swift  word 

With  pride  and  scorn  had  strife, 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TEKKOK.  47 

As  back  upon  the  blood-stained  herd, 

He  hurled  the  proffered  life. 
"  Stay  not  for  me  the  tide  ye  shed, 

I  spurn  the  boon  ye  give  ; 
The  lovely  and  the  pure  are  dead, 

'T  is  but  the  guilty  live. 

"  Call  ye  it  mercy  ?     What !  to  breathe 

This  rank  and  poisoned  air, 
Where  sights  like  these  the  eyeballs  seethe  ?- 

Where  only  murderers  are  ? 
The  frailest  cowards  'neath  yon  sky 

May  welcome  death's  advance, 
When  hell  itself  is  drained  of  fiends 

To  seal  the  curse  of  France. 
Quick, — to  your  tasks, — the  hour  runs  waste, 

Yon  dungeons  wait  your  care  ; 
The  life's-blood  crowds  my  veins,  for  haste 

To  join  the  slumberers  there." 

He  ceased, — but  ere  the  breasts  of  men 

Could,  for  the  wonder  thrill, 
Hoarse  breathed  that  brazen  mouth  again  : — 

His  burning  heart  was  still. 


LA  TRICOTEUSE. 

LED  by  Santerre  the  brewer,  Legendre  the  butcher, 
and  Theroigne  de  Mericourt  the  prostitute,  the  women 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  other  similar  quarters 
in  Paris,  became  during  the  Reign  of  Terror  the  most 
terribly  furious  and  bloodthirsty  of  all  the  inhuman  mon- 
sters brought  to  the  surface  in  that  awful  strife  for  liberty. 
Maddened  by  want  of  food  and  excited  to  frenzy  by  vile 
liquor,  these  beings,  bearing  the  semblance  of  women, 
were  made  worse  than  famished  wolves  in  their  cruelty 
and  their  demand  for  blood.  From  the  midst  of  these 
unsexed  creatures  came  the  "  Furies  "  of  the  guillotine, 
among  whose  number  were  found  that  band  called  "  The 
Knitters,"  who  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold  at  every 
execution,  knitting  ;  and  as  head  after  head  fell  into  the 
basket  they  would  look  up  from  their  work  and  count 
"  one  " — "  two  " — "  three,"  until  the  full  quota  of  victims 
for  the  day  had  ceased  to  exist.  These  women  were 
capable  of  teaching  an  innocent  child  to  become  one  of 
them,  and  the  story  told  below  is  not  at  all  improbable. 

LA    TRICOTEUSE. 

GEORGE  \V.  THORMU-RY. 

The  fourteenth  of  July  had  come, 
And  round  the  guillotine 

46 


LA   TRICOTEUSE.  49 

The  thieves  and  beggars,  rank  by  rank, 

Moved  the  red  flags  between. 
A  crimson  heart,  upon  a  pole, — 

The  long  march  had  begun  ; 
But  still  the  little  smiling  child 

Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 


The  red  caps  of  those  men  of  France 

Shook  like  a  poppy-field  ; 
Three  women's  heads  with  gory  hair, 

The  standard-bearers  wield. 
Cursing,  with  song  and  battle  hymn, 

Five  butchers  dragged  a  gun  ; 
Yet  still  the  little  maid  sat  there, 

A-knitting  in  the  sun. 


An  axe  was  painted  on  the  flags, 

A  broken  throne  and  crown, 
A  ragged  coat  upon  a  lance, 

Hung  in  foul  black  shreds  down. 
"  More  heads  !  "  the  seething  rabble  cry 

And  now  the  drums  begun  ; 
But  still  the  little  fair-haired  child 

Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 

And  every  time  a  head  rolled  off, 

They  roll  like  winter  seas, 
And,  with  a  tossing  up  of  caps, 

Shouts  shook  the  Tuileries. 
Whi/z — went  the  heavy  chopper  down. 

And  then  the  drums  begun  ; 
But  still  the  little  smiling  child 

Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 


5O  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  Jacobins,  ten  thousand  strong, 

And  every  man  a  sword  ; 
The  red  caps,  with  the  tricolours, 

Led  on  the  noisy  horde. 
"  The  Sans-Culottes  to-day  are  strong." 

The  gossips  say,  and  run  ; 
But  still  the  little  maid  sits  there, 

A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

Then  the  slow  death-cart  moved  along  ; 

And,  singing  patriot  songs, 
A  pale,  doomed  poet  bowing  comes 

And  cheers  the  swaying  throng. 
Oh,  when  the  axe  swept  shining  down, 

The  mad  drums  all  begun  ; 
But,  smiling  still,  the  little  child 

Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 

44  Le  Marquis  !  " — linen  snowy  white, 

The  powder  in  his  hair, 
Waving  his  scented  handkerchief. 

Looks  down  with  careless  stare. 
A  whirr,  a  chop — another  head — 

Hurrah  !  the  work  's  begun  ; 
But  still  the  little  child  sat  there, 

A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

A  stir,  and  through  the  parting  crowd, 

The  people's  friends  are  come  ; 
Marat  and  Robespierre — "  Vivat ! 

Roll  thunder  from  the  drum." 
The  one  a  wild  beast's  hungry  eye, 

Hair  tangled- — hark  !   a  gun  ! 
The  other  kindly  kissed  the  child 

A-knitting  in  the  sun. 


LA    TK ICOTK  USE,  51 

"  And  why  not  work  all  night  ?  "  the  child 

Said,  to  the  knitters  there  ; 
Oh,  how  the  furies  shook  their  sides, 

And  tossed  their  grizzled  hair ! 
Then  clapped  a  bonnet  rouge  on  her, 

And  cried — "  'T  is  well  begun  !  " 
And  laughed  to  see  the  little  child 

Knit,  smiling,  in  the  sun. 


CHARLOTTE  CORDAY. 

OF  all  the  hideous  beings,  miscalled  men,  unearthed  by 
the  French  Revolution,  Jean  Paul  Marat  was  the  worst 
and  the  most  hideous.  Deformed  and  dirty  in  person  ; 
ferocious  as  a  wild  beast ;  vindictive  and  cruel ;  yet,  with 
all,  endowed  with  some  considerable  talent  and  a  great 
deal  of  charlatan  cunning,  he  stirred  up,  by  his  writings 
and  by  his  speeches,  the  vilest  elements  to  be  found  in 
the  city  of  Paris.  "  Eight  hundred  gibbets  ought  to  be 
erected  in  the  Tuileries  to  hang  all  traitors  "  ;  "  Massacre 
two  hundred  thousand  partisans  of  the  former  order  of 
things,"  are  mild  illustrations  of  the  frantic  ravings  of 
this  madman.  On  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1/93,  the  anni- 
versary of  the  storming  of  the  Bastile,  Charlotte  Corday 
rid  the  world  of  this  inhuman  fiend.  Tried  for  the  crime, 
and,  by  her  own  confession,  convicted,  she  perished  upon 
the  scaffold. 

CHARLOTTE     CORDAY. 

ANON. 

Who  is  this,  with  calm  demeanour, 
And  with  form  of  matchless  grace, 

Wearing  yet  the  modest  beauty 
Of  her  childhood  in  her  face? 

52 


CHARLOTTE  CORDAY. 
From  an  engraving  by  Le  Vachex. 

Paris,   1804. 


CHA RLOTTE   COKDA  Y.  53 

Close  the  white  folds  of  her  kerchief 

All  her  neck  and  bosom  \vrap, 
And  her  soft  brown  hair  is  hidden 

Underneath  her  Norman  cap. 

This  is  she  who  left  the  convent, 
For  the  fierce  and  restless  throngs, 

Who  were  gathering  head  for  battle, 
To  avenge  her  country's  wrongs. 

This  is  she  who  to  its  rescue, 

Was  the  foremost  to  advance — 
She  who  struck  to  death  the  tyrant 

Of  her  well  beloved  France. 

She  who  had  the  martyr's  spirit 

To  perform  as  she  had  planned  ; 
Taking  thus  her  life's  sweet  promise 

In  her  own  presumptuous  hand. 

All  the  while,  herself  deceiving, 

With  this  dangerous  subtletry. 
"  Evil,  surely,  is  not  evil 

If  a  good  is  gained  thereby. 

"  If  I  perish  for  my  country. 

Is  not  this  a  righteous  deed  ? 
If  I  save  the  lives  of  thousands, 

What  is  it  that  one  should  bleed  ?" 

So,  arraigned  at  the  tribunal. 

This  alone  was  her  reply  : 
"  It  was  I  who  did  this  murder, 

And  I  do  not  fear  to  die." 


54  A   METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

Therefore  pitying,  admiration, 

More  than  blame,  for  her  we  feel — 

Hers  was  noble  and  heroic, 
Though  it  was  mistaken  zeal. 

And  so  long  as  France  shall  honour 
Those  whose  blood  for  her  is  shed, 

Shall  the  name  of  Charlotte  Corday 
Live  among  the  martyred  dead  ! 


THE  GIRONDINS. 

PRESIDENT  of  the  Convention  that  voted  death  to  Louis 
XVI.,  and  himself  casting  such  a  vote,  Vergniaud  ami  his 
fellow  Girondins,  of  whom  he  was  the  stalwart  leader, 
were  in  turn  doomed  to  taste  of  the  same  bitter  cup  they 
had  prescribed  for  their  king.  Marat  dead  by  the  hand  of 
an  assassin  ;  the  Girondins  about  to  die  on  the  scaffold  ; 
Danton,  St.  Just,  Robespierre  soon  to  follow.  It  would 
seem  like  the  irony  of  fate  when  we  count  how  few  of  the 
men  who  brought  about  those  awful  days  survived  to 
witness  the  end.  A  young,  unknown  artillery  officer,  who 
was  an  advocate  of  grapeshot,  but  not  of  the  guillotine, 
and  who  had  taken  no  active  part  in  the  blood}-  ami  hor- 
rible deeds  of  the  French  Revolution,  was  the  one  des- 
tined to  bring  it  to  a  close,  and  the  one,  above  all  others, 
to  be  benefited  by  it. 

''  The  last  night  of  the  Girondins  was  sublime.  Vergni- 
aud was  provided  with  poison.  lie  threw  it  away  that  he 
might  die  with  his  friends.  They  took  a  last  meal  to- 
gether, at  which  the}'  were  by  turns  merry,  serious,  and 
eloquent.  Brissot  and  Gcnsonne  were  grave  and  pensive. 
Vergniaud  spoke  of  expiring  liberty  in  the  noblest  terms 
of  regret,  and  of  the  destinies  of  man  with  persuasive  elo- 

O 

quence.      Ducos  repeated  verses  which    he   had  composed 


56  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

in  prison  ;  and  they  all  joined  in  singing  hymns  to  France 
and  Liberty." — Thiers'  History  of  the  French  Revolution. 
"  The  Girondins  spent  the  last  night  of  their  captivity 
in  the  great  dungeon — that  Hall  of  Death.  The  tribunal 
had  ordered  that  the  still  warm  corpse  of  Valaze'  should 
be  taken  back  to  the  prison,  carried  on  the  same  cart  with 
his  accomplices  to  the  place  of  execution,  and  buried  with 
them.  .  .  .  The  gen-d'armes  placed  the  body  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  prison.  The  Girondins,  one  after  the  other, 
kissed  the  heroic  hand  of  their  friend.  They  covered  his 
face  with  his  mantle.  '  To-morrow  !  '  said  they  to  the 
corpse  ;  and  they  gathered  their  strength  for  the  coming 
day.  It  was  near  midnight.  The  deputy  Baillcul,  pro- 
scribed like  them,  but  concealed  in  Paris,  had  promised  to 
send  them  from  without,  on  the  day  of  their  judgment,  a 
last  repast  of  triumph,  or  of  death,  according  as  they 
might  be  acquitted  or  condemned.  By  the  help  of  a 
friend,  he  kept  his  word.  The  funeral  supper  was  spread 
in  the  great  dungeon.  Costly  viands,  rare  wines,  flowers, 
and  lights  covered  the  oak  table  of  the  prison.  The  meal 
lasted  until  the  dawn  of  day.  Vcrgniaud,  seated  near  the 
centre  of  the  table,  presided  with  the  same  calm  dignity 
which  he  had  preserved  during  the  night  of  the  tenth  of 
August  while  presiding  over  the  Convention.  The  guests 
ate  and  drank  with  sobriety — merely  to  recruit  their 
strength.  Their  discourse  was  grave  and  solemn,  though 
not  sad.  Many  of  them  spoke  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  expressed  their  belief  in  a  future  state." — La- 
martine's  History  of  the  Girondins. 


THE  G I  RON  DINS.  57 

THE  GIRONDINS. 

DrMAS  AND  MAQUKI. 

When  with  the  cannon's  mighty  voice, 

Her  many  children  France  invites, 
The  soldier  feels  his  heart  rejoice, 

And  for  his  mother  proudly  fights. 

Sublime  is  death  indeed, 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — we  bleed. 

We  die,  from  battle-fields  remote, 

Yet  not  ignoble  is  our  doom  ; 
To  France  and  freedom  we  devote 

Our  heads,  and  gladly  seek  the  tomb. 

Sublime  is  death  indeed, 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — we  bleed. 

Brethren,  we  die  a  martyr's  death, 

A  noble  creed  we  all  profess ; 
No  word  of  sorrow  let  us  breathe ; 

Our  France  one  day  our  name  will  bless. 

Sublime  is  death  indeed, 
When  for  our  native  land — for  liberty — we  bleed. 

Then  unto  God  your  voices  lift 
In  gratitude, — a  single  sigh 

Would  ill  repay  Him  for  His  gift- 
It  is  for  liberty  we  die. 

Sublime  is  death  indeed. 

When  for  our  native  land — for  libertv — we  bleed. 


MADAME    ROLAND. 

IT  was  but  a  natural  sequence  to  the  execution  of  the 
Girondins  that  Madame  Roland  should  perish  upon  the 
same  scaffold.  She  who  had  been  "  the  soul  of  the 
Gironde,  this  woman  might  one  day  prove  a  very  Neme- 
sis, if  permitted  to  survive  those  illustrious  individuals 
who  had  preceded  her  to  the  grave."  Would  this  woman 
have  been  as  instrumental  as  she  \vas  in  bringing  the 
Marseillais  to  Paris  had  she  known  the  horrors  which 
were  to  follow?  We  doubt  it.  She  was  too  much  of  a 
woman  to  become  a  butcher.  She  met  her  fate  bravely  : 
her  last  act  being  one  of  kindness  to  a  weak  and  infirm 
old  man,  in  asking  that  he  be  executed  first,  so  that  she 
would  spare  him  the  pain  of  witnessing  her  blood  flow. 
Bowing  herself  before  the  statue  of  Liberty  she  uttered 
the  words,  "  O  Liberty  !  Liberty  !  how  many  crimes  are 
committed  in  thy  name,"  and  then  her  fair  head  fell  into 
that  basket  destined  to  receive  so  many  bloody  trophic^ 
in  the  mis-used  name  of  freedom. 

MADAME     ROLAND. 


A  mien  of  modest  loveliness, 

A  brow  on  which  no  shadow  lies, 
And  woman's  soul  of  truthfulness 
Out-lookin     from  soft  ha/el  ees: 


MA  DA  MR   KOLA  ND. 


59 


Thy  placid  features  only  show 
The  happy  mother,  faithful  wife, 

Not  her  whose  fate  it  was  to  know 
All  strange  vicissitudes  of  life. 

Unnoticed  in  thy  youthful  clays 

It  was  thy  happy  lot  to  move, 
Brightening  life's  unobtrusive  ways 

With  the  sweet  ministries  of  love. 

And  learning  the  great  truths  of  life 
That  best  are  learned  in  solitude, 

But  only  in  its  after  strife 

Are  ever  proved  or  understood  ! 

That  toiling  early,  toiling  late, 
For  others,  is  our  highest  bliss — 

Man,  even  in  his  best  estate, 

Hath  no  more  happiness  than  this. 

Such  truth  it  was,  that  even  there, 

Where  reigned  the  prison's  gloom  and  chill, 
Could  keep  thee  wholly  from  despair, 

And  make  thee  toil  for  others  still. 

Till  thine  own  sorrows  half   forgot. 

Thy  noblest  sacrifice  was  shown 
In  words  and  deeds  for  those  whose  lot 

Was  far  more  wretched  than  thine  o\vn. 

Yet  well  for  thee  our  tears  may  flow, 

Though  high  thy  name  embla/.oned   >tand^. 

Thou,  with  a  woman's  heart,  could^t  know 
No  life  that  woman's  heart  demands. 

Happier  than  thou,  with  fame  and  wealth. 
Is  she  who  cheers  earth's  humblest  place; 

Leaving  no  picture  of   herself. 

Save  in  a  daughter's  modest  face. 


DEATH    OF    ROBESPIERRE. 

THE  death  of  Robespierre,  July  28,  1/94,  was  the  end 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror;  the  Revolution  ended  October 
4,  1/95,  when  Napoleon,  in  command  of  the  troops  sta- 
tioned around  the  Tuileries  in  defence  of  the  National 
Convention,  mowed  down  with  grape  and  canister  the 
armed  hosts  of  the  revolting  Sections.  This  is  not  the 
proper  place  to  undertake  an  analysis  of  the  character  of 
Robespierre.  He  certainly  rose  higher,  held  more  abso- 
lute power,  and  was  more  dreaded  and  feared  than  any 
man  connected  with  the  history  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. Whether  he  was  a  demagogue,  or  an  honest  repub- 
lican seeking  only  the  good  of  France,  is  a  question  upon 
which  historians  greatly  differ.  It  is,  however,  a  fact  that 
had  he  not  fallen  when  he  did,  Josephine  would,  in  all 
human  probability,  have  lost  her  head  upon  the  scaffold  ; 
Barras  could  not  have  given  her  hand  to  Napoleon  in 
connection  with  the  command  of  the  Army  of  Italy,  and 
the  great  Emperor's  life  would  have  turned  at  some  other 
periods  than  those  of  his  marriage  and  his  divorce. 

DEATH    OF    ROBESPIERRE. 
(10  Thermidor,  1794.) 

HENRY   HOWARD   BKOWNKLL. 

Here  let  us  stand — windows,  and  roofs,  and  leads 
Alive  with  clinging  thousands — what  a  scene  ! 

Go 


ROBESPIEKKR. 

Artist  and  engraver  unknown. 

Published  in  "  Histoire-Musee  de  la  Republique-Kran<,aise.' 
Paris  (no  date). 


DEATH  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  6 1 

And  in  the  midst,  above  that  sea  of  heads, 
Glooms  the  black  Guillotine. 

A  scene  like  that  in  the  Eternal  City, 

When  on  men's  hearts  the  Arena  feasted  high- 
While  myriads  of  dark  faces,  void  of  pity, 
Looked  on  to  see  them  die. 

How  the  keen  Gallic  eyes  dilate  and  glare ! 

The  flexible  brows  and  lips  grimace  and  frown — 
How  the  walls  tremble  to  their  shout,  whene'er 

That  heavy  steel  comes  down  ! 

'T  is  nearly  over — twenty  heads  have  rolled, 
One  after  one,  upon  the  block — while  cheers 

And  yells  and  curses  howled  by  hate  untold 
Rang  in  their  dying  ears. 

One  more  is  left — and  now,  amid  a  storm 

Of  angry  sound  from  that  great  human  Hive, 

They  rear  upright  a  dizened  ghastly  form, 
Mangled,  yet  still  alive. 

Like  one  emerging  from  a  deadly  swoon, 
His  eyes  unclose  upon  that  living  plain— 

Those  livid,  snaky  eyes  ! — he  shuts  them  soon, 
Never  to  ope  again. 

As  that  forlorn,  last,  wandering  gaze  they  took, 
Perhaps  those  cruel  eyes,  in  hopeless  mood, 

Sought,  in  their  agony,  one  pitying  look 
'Mid  that  vast  multitude. 

Sought,  but  in  vain, — inextricablv  mixed 

o 

(  )n  square  and  street  and  house-top — lie  surveys 


62  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

A  hundred  thousand  human  eyes,  all  fixed 
In  one  fierce,  pitiless  gaze. 

Down  to  the  plank !  the  brutal  headsmen  tear 

Those  blood-glued  rags — nay,  spare  him  needless  pain. 

One  cry !  God  grant  that  we  may  never  hear 
A  cry  like  that  again  ! 

A  pause — and  the  axe  falls  on  Robespierre. 

That  trenchant  blade  hath  done  its  office  well — 
Hark  to  the  mighty  roar  !    Down,  Murderer — 

Down  to  thy  native  Hell! 

Again  that  terrible  shout !  till  suburb  far 

And  crowded  dungeon  marvel  what  it  mean — 

Hurrah!  and  louder,  louder,  yet  hurrah 
For  the  good  Guillotine  ! 

And  breasts  unladen  heave  a  longer  breath — 
And  parting  footsteps  echo  fast  and  light — 

Our  Foe  is  lodged  in  the  strong  Prison  of  Death ! 
Paris  shall  sleep  to-night. 


MADAME  TALLIEX. 

WITHIN  the  prison  walls  of  the  Carmcs,  at  Paris,  the 
day  before  the  downfall  of  Robespierre,  two  women  were 
confined,  whose  execution  had  been  decreed  for  the  mor- 
row. One  was  Josephine  Tascher,  the  widow  of  General 
Beauharnais,  who  had  lately  perished  upon  the  scaffold  ; 
the  other  was  Theresa  Cabarus,  the  beloved  of  Tallien, 
guilty  only  of  the  crime  of  exercising  too  much  power  for 
clemency  over  her  lover,  the  people's  representative  at 
Bordeaux.  These  women,  both  beautiful,  were  intimate 
friends,  and  had  equally  shared  the  public  admiration  be- 
stowed upon  them.  It  is  said  that  after  the  execution  of 
Robespierre  the  friendship  of  Barras  was  the  key  which 
unlocked  the  prison  door  for  these  two  noted  women  ; 
one  of  whom  was  to  become  the  Empress  of  France  ;  the 
other  the  destroyer  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  by  inspiring 
her  lover  with  courage  to  attack  Robespierre  openly  in 
the  Convention  Hall. 

It  is  told  by  Lamartine,  that  one  evening,  while  return- 
ing home,  a  letter  from  Theresa  Cabarus  was  slipped  into 
Tallien's  hand.  This  note,  which  a  bribed  gaoler  had 
allowed  to  leave  the  prison,  was  written  in  blood.  It  con- 
tained only  these  words  :  "  The  Administrator  of  Police 
has  just  left.  lie  came  to  announce  to  me  that  to-morrow 
I  should  ascend  to  the  tribunal,  that  is  to  sav,  to  the  scaf- 


64  A   METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

fold.  This  but  little  resembles  the  dream  I  had  last 
night.  If  Robespierre  no  longer  existed,  the  prisons 
would  be  open.  But  thanks  to  your  unworthy  cowardice 
there  will  soon  be  no  one  in  France  capable  of  realising 
this  event."  Tallien  laconically  replied:  "Be  you  as 
prudent  as  I  will  be  courageous,  and  be  calm."  As  is 
well  known,  the  result  was  that  Tallien  became  the  chief 
actor  in  bringing  about  the  ruin  of  Robespierre  and  his 
party. 

Madame  Tallien's  reputation  was  not  of  the  best.  De- 
serting her  first  husband  for  Tallien,  whom  she  married 
only  after  the  Qth  Thermidor,  and  in  time  deserting,  him 
to  marry  the  Prince  de  Chimai,  she,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  her  time,  gained  a  most  unhappy  celebrity^ 
which  pursued  her  everywhere.  Fond  of  society  and  the 
adoration  she  received,  her  boldness  in  breaking  over  even 
the  very  loose  social  laws  which  then  existed  daunted  her 
friends.  After  his  marriage  with  Josephine,  Napoleon 
forbade  her  receiving  the  friend  of  her  prison  life,  and  the 
doors  of  the  Tuileries  were  shut  against  the  woman  who, 
in  a  great  measure,  had  been  the  means  of  making  it  pos- 
sible for  her  old-time  friend  to  become  the  wife  of  the 
future  Emperor. 

MADAME    TALLIEN. 

ANON. 

With  a  form  of  wondrous  beauty 

And  of  most  unrivalled  grace, 
With  a  voice  of  winning  sweetness 

And  a  fair  and  witching  face, 


MADAME  TALLIEN.  65 

From  the  pleasant  paths  of  girlhood, 

She  came  up  with  joy  elate, 
And  took  thoughtlessly  upon  her 

All  a  matron's  care  and  state. 

And  we  scarce  can  ever  wonder 

That  her  life  so  careless  seems — 
She  is  now  but  just  emerging 

From  her  childhood's  thoughtless  dreams. 

And  she  has  not  learned  the  lesson, 

That  can  only  come  with  years — 
That  our  life  is  not  for  pleasure, 

But  for  labour  and  for  tears. 

But  behold  her,  by  misfortune, 

From  her  height  of  pleasure  hurled  ; 

Hath  she  seen  how  unsubstantial 
Are  the  honours  of  the  world  .' 

Doth  she  view  her  life  as  something 

That  was  profitless  and  vain? 
What  hath  been  to  her  the  discipline 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pain  ? 

Alas!   that  heaviest  trial. 

Lonely  thought,  and  fiery  strife, 
Could  not  change  the  heart  within  her, 

Nor  the  purpose  of  her  life. 

For  she  lived  by  fitful  impulse, 

Doing  sometimes  deeds  of  good  ; 
Sometimes,  in  red  wine  washing 

Out  the  memories  of  blood. 


66  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OP'  NAPOLEON. 

Reigning  as  the  queen  of  beauty, 
With  an  undisputed  claim  ; 

Hiding  with  a  crown  of  roses 

All  her  forehead's  crimson  shame. 

Yet  we  would  not  quite  condemn  her 

Unto  perfect  infamy, 
For  she  seemed  to  have  within  her 

Something  better  than  we  see. 

And  she  might  have  added  virtue 
To  her  beauty  and  her  grace 

If  her  lines  of  life  had  fallen 
In  a  good  and  pleasant  place. 


THE    GRAND    ARMY. 

WHILE  the  Revolution  went  on  and  its  effects  were  being 
felt  from  one  end  of  France  to  the  other;  while  the  trail- 

o 

lotine  ran  red  with  blood,  and  brother  condemned  brother 
to  suffer  beneath  its  awful  knife  ;  while  it  was  a  question 
of  extreme  doubt  what  precise  form  the  government 
would  assume,  the  soldiers  of  France,  fighting  her  battles 
on  the  frontiers,  held  firm  for  the  honour  of  their  country. 
Barefooted,  without  arms  and  without  food,  thev  fought 

»  O 

against  combined  Europe.  Victory  after  victory  they 
won  ;  until,  driven  beyond  the  Rhine,  the  invaders  were 
glad  to  sue  for  peace.  These  were  the  men  who  were  t<> 
make  possible  the  name  of  Napoleon,  and  well  did  they 
merit  better  than  they  then  received.  The  glory,  the 
honour,  the  future  of  France  were  in  their  keeping,  and 
never  once  did  they  betray  the  trust. 

THE    CJKAND    ARMY. 


Soldiers  of  our  Year  Two  !   (.)  Wars  !   (.)  epic  songs  ! 
Drawing  at  once  their  swords  against  all  Crowned  Wn>n;. 

In  Prussian,  Austrian  bounds, 

And  against  all  the  Tyres  and  Sodoms  of  the  earth, 
And  him  the  man-hunter,  the  T/ar  o'  the  icy  North, 

Follow'd  bv  all  his  hounds. 


68  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  against  Europe  all,  with  all  its  captains  proud, 
With  all  its  foot-soldiers  whose  might  the  plains  did  crowd^ 

With  all  its  horsemen  fleet, 

All  risen  against  France,  with  many  a  hydra  head, — 
They  sang  as  on  they  march'd,  their  spirits  without  dread, 

And  without  shoes  their  feet. 

At  early  dawn,  at  eve,  South,  North,  and  everywhere, 
With  their  old  muskets  on  their  shoulders,  rattling  there, 

Passing  both  rock  and  flood, 

Without  sleep  or  rest,  foodless,  and  ragged  too, 
Joyous  and   proud  they   went,  and   their  shrill  trumpets 
blew 

As  only  demons  could. 

Sublimest  Liberty  fill'd  evermore  their  thought ; 

Fleets  taken  sword  in  hand,  and  frontiers  set  at  nought,— 

So  sovereignly  they  go  ; 

O  France  !   on  every  day  some  prodigy  they  dare, — 
Encounters,  combats,  shocks, — on  Adige'  side  Joubcrt, 

And  on  the  Rhine  Marceau. 

The  vanguard  they  o'ercame,  the    centre  they  o'erthrew ; 
In  the  snow,  and  in  the  rain,  water  their  middles  to, 

On  went   they,  ever  on  : 

And  one  sued  them  for  peace,  and  one  flung  wide  his  gate  ; 
And  thrones  were  scattered  like  dead  leaves,  here  of  late, 

Now  at  the  wind's  breath  gone. 

O  soldiers  !  you  were  grand,  in  the  midst  of  battle-shocks, 
With  your  lightning-flashing  eyes  and  wild  dishcvell'd  locks 

In  the  wild  whirlwind  black  ; 

Impetuous,  ardent,  radiant,  tossing  back  your  heads, 
Like  lions  snuffing  up  the  North-wind  when  he  treads 

L^pon  his  tempest  track  ! 


THE    GKAXD   AKMY.  69 

Drunken  and  madly  rapt  in  their  great  epic  deeds, 
They  savour'd  all  the  mirth  of  most  heroic  needs, — 

Steel  clashing  here  and  there, 
The  winged  Marseillaise  flying  amid  the  balls, 
The  grenades  and  the  drums,  the  bomb-shells  and  cymbals. 

And  thy  clear  laugh,  Kleber! 

The  Revolution  cried — Die,  O  my  volunteers! 
Die  to  deliver  all  the  people  from  their  fears ! 

Their  answering  hands  they  raised. 
Go,  my  old  soldiers  !  go,  my  beardless  generals  ! 
And   Victory  proudly  march'd    to  the  sound   of  bare  foot 
falls  ' 

Over  the  world  amazed. 

Disheartening  and  fear  to  them  were  all  unknown  ; 
They  had  without  a  doubt  over  the  high  clouds  gone. 

If  their  audacity 

In  its  Olympic  race  one  moment  had  look'cl  back. 
And  seen  the  Republic  point  over  their  glorious  track 

Her  finger  to  the  sky. 


TH E  SONG  O F  D E PA RT U R  E. 

NEXT  to  the  "  Marsellaise,"  the  following. was,  perhaps, 
tlie  most  popular  song  of  the  latter  clays  of  the  French 
Revolution.  It  was  the  song  sung  by  the  soldiers  of 
Joubert,  Marceau,  and  Kleber  as,  foot-sore  and  weary,  they 
marched  against  their  enemies.  The  Directory  adopted 
it  and  Napoleon's  warriors  took  it  up  in  the  early  days  of 
the  Republic  as  they  pushed  forward  the  work  so  gal- 
lantly begun  by  the  heroes  who  had  preceded  them. 

THE    SONG    OF    DEPARTURE. 

M.  J.  CIU'.NIKK. 

Victory,  hymning  loud,  our  pathway  makes, 

While  freedom  guides  our  steps  aright  ; 
From  North  to  South  the  martial  trumpet  wakes 

To  sound  the  moment  for  the  fight. 
Tremble,  ye  enemies  of  France, 

Kings  who  with  blood  have  slaked  your  thirst ! 
The  sovereign  people  see  advance 

To  hurl  ye  to  your  grave  accursed. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls  ; 

For  her  our  hearts  and  lives  we  give  ; 
For  her  a  Frenchman  gladly  falls, 

For  her  alone  he  seeks  to  live. 

J    Mother. 

See,  from  your   mother's  eye  no   tear-drops  flow, 
Far  from  our  hearts  we  banish  fears; 


THE   SONG   OF  DEPARTURE.  ; 

We  triumph  when  in  freedom's  cause  \v  Lro,— 

*•  *  »>       * 

Only  for  tyrant's  eyes  are  tears. 
Warriors,  \ve  gave  you  life,  't  is  true, 

But  yours  no  more  the  gift  can  be  ; 
Your  lives  are  now  your  country's  due, 

She  is  your  mother  more  than  we. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 

Two   Old  Men. 

The  old  paternal  sword  becomes  the  brave, 

Remember  us  'mid  battle's  rage  : 
And  let  the  blood  of  tyrant  and  of  slave 

Honour  the  weapon  blessed  by  age. 
Then  to  our  humble  cottage  come  ; 

With  wounds  and  glory  as  your  pri/.e  : 
When  tyrants  have  received  their  doom, 

Then,  children,  come  to  close  our  eyes. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 

A    Child. 

We  envy  Viala's  and  Barra's  lot  ; 

Victors  were  they,  though  doomed  to  bleed  : 
Weighed  down  by  years,  the  coward  liveth  not  ; 

Who  dies  for  freedom,  lives  indeed. 
With  you  we  would  all«dangers  brave. 

Lead  us  against  our  tyrants  then  : 
None  is  a  child  except  the  slave, 

While  all  republicans  are  men. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 

A    Wife. 

Husbands,  rejoicing,  seek  the  plain  of  death, 

As  patterns  for  all  warriors  shine  ; 
Flowers  will  we  pluck  t<>  make  the  victor's  wn-at 

(  hir  hands  the  laurel  crown  willtuine. 


72  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

When,  your  blest  manes  to  receive, 
Fame  shall  her  portals  open  fling, 

Still  in  our  songs  your  names  shall  live, 
From  us  shall  your  avengers  spring. 

Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 

A    Young  Girl. 

We,  who  know  nought  of  Hymen's  gentle  fire, 

But  sisters  of  your  heroes  are, 
We  bid  you,  citizens,  if  you  desire 

With  us  our  destiny  to  share, 
Radiant  with  liberty  to  come, 

And  glory  purchased   with  your  blood, 
The  joyful  record  bringing  home 

Of  universal  brotherhood. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 

Three    Warriors. 

Here,  before  God,  upon  our  s\vords  we  swear 

To  all  who  crown  this  life  with  joy, 
To  mothers,  sisters,  wives,  and  children  dear, 

The  foul  oppressor  to  destroy. 
Into  the  black  abyss  of  night 

Hurled  every  guilty  king  shall  be  ; 
France  o'er  the  world  shall  spread  the  light 

Of  endless  peace  and  liberty. 
Come,  brethren,  the  Republic  calls,  etc. 


NAPOLEON,  COMMANDER  OK  THE  ARMY  OF  ITALY. 
From  an  engraving  by  J.  B.  L.  Massard,  Kils,  after  J.  B.  F.  MASSAKII 

Paris,    1 80 1. 


THF  BATTLE  OF  LODI. 

IT  was  at  one  time  a  question  in  Napoleon's  mind 
whether  he  would  take  side  with  the  Royalists,  or  with 
the  Republicans.  He  witnessed  the  awful  scenes  of  the 
twentieth  of  June,  and,  again,  the  bloody  tenth  of  August. 
Upon  the  latter  occasion  he  is  said  to  have  spoken  boldly 
against  the  weak  defense  made  by  the  King  and  his 
party,  and  to  have  asserted  how,  had  he  been  in  com- 
mand, he  would  have  destroyed  the  cowardly  mob  that 
assailed  the  Tuileries;  and  he  proved,  afterwards,  on  the 
1 3th  Vendemaire,  that  he  was  capable  of  doing  that 
very  thing.  "  Had  I  been  a  general  officer,"  he  said. 
"  I  might  have  adhered  to  the  Court  party  ;  a  sub- 
lieutenant, I  sided  with  the  Revolution."  He  took  n<> 
active  part  in  the  terrible  work  of  the  Revolution,  as  it 
was  carried  on  throughout  the  nation.  He  was  a  soldier, 
pure  and  simple,  and  obeyed  the  governing  power,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  in  fighting  to  protect  France.  In  1793 
he  was  named  by  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety  a> 
commander  of  the  artillery  at  the  siege  of  Toulon,  and 
it  was  there  he  first  demonstrated  the  military  genius  he 
possessed,  and  which,  eleven  years  afterwards,  placed  him 
upon  the  throne  of  France  and  made  him  master  of 
Europe. 

After  the  engagement  at  Toulon,  Napoleon,  for  a  time. 


74  -I    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

dropped  out  of  public  sight,  as  any  great  factor  in  the 
history  then  being  made.  Arrested  as  a  suspect  and 
thrown  into  prison  he  barely  escaped  losing  his  head 
upon  the  scaffold.  Released,  only  to  be  degraded  in  the 
army,  he  resigned  his  commission  and  seriously  thought 
of  offering  his  services  to  Turkey.  Wandering  around 
Paris,  without  money  and  with  no  prospects  in  view,  the 
two  years  following  Toulon  were  not  uneventful  ones  in 
the  life  of  the  future  Emperor.  Fate  was  about  to  offer 
and  he  was  about  to  grasp  the  opportunity  of  his  life. 
In  October,  1795,  the  Sections  arose  against  the  National 
Convention  and  the  new  constitution  and,  joined  by  the 
National  Guard,  the  mob  of  Paris  was  about  to  try  its 
strength  once  more  against  the  recognised  government. 
That  government  was  a  weak  one  ;  its  military  comman- 
der proved  himself  wholly  incapable  of  coping  with  the 
situation.  The  five  thousand  troops  under  his  command, 
were  no  match  for  the  fortv  thousand  moving  against 

s  G  O 

them.  It  looked  as  though  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries 
was  again  to  be  drenched  with  the  blood  of  its  defenders, 
the  existing  government  overthrown  and  its  members 
sent  to  the  guillotine.  In  sheer  desperation,  and  as  a  last 
resort,  the  command  of  the  government  troops  was  offered 
to  Napoleon,  then  a  mere  youth  of  twenty-five  years  of 
age.  lie  accepted  the  commission;  but  only  upon  con- 
dition that  he  was  to  have  the  absolute  control  and  man- 
agement of  the  whole  affair  and  was  not  to  be  interfered 

o 

with  in  any  way  by  the  Convention.  The  result  is  a  well 
known  matter  of  history.  With  his  five  thousand  mus- 
kets ami  his  park  of  artillery,  saved  only  by  the  rapidity 


THK   BATTLE   OF  LODI.  75 

of  his  action  from  the  hands  of  the  insurgents,  he  deluged 
the  streets  of  Paris  with  blood.  His  argument  with  a 
mob — grapeshot — prevailed.  France  was  saved,  and 
Napoleon  was  one  round  nearer  the  top  of  the  ladder. 

It  was  at  this  period  Napoleon  first  met  Josephine.  A 
combination  of  love  and  ambition  urged  his  suit  forward, 
and,  after  a  brief  courtship,  they  were  married  by  a  civil 
contract,  on  the  sixth  of  March,  1796.  There  can  be  little 
doubt  that  this  marriage  brought  to  Napoleon,  as  a  wed- 
ding gift  from  Barras,  the  command  of  the  Army  of  Italy. 
That  command  sent  him  to  a  field  where  he  achieved 
some  of  his  most  brilliant  successes.  Concerning  his 
marriage,  he  himself,  is  authority  for  the  statement  that 
his  union  with  Josephine  started  hi-n  on  the  road  to  the 
throne  of  France  ;  while  his  divorce  from  her  started  him 
on  the  road  to  St.  Helena.  Montenottc,  Milessimo,  Lodi, 
Arcola,  and  Rivoli  were  but  a  few  of  the  wonderful 
battles  fought  and  won  by  this  youthful  warrior,  with  his 
ragged  and  hungry  army  pitted  against  the  skilled  and 
veteran  generals  of  Austria  and  Sardinia.  His  attacks  in 
front  and  in  rear,  on  the  right  and  on  the  left  flank,  were  too 
rapid  an  innovation  in  the  art  of  war  for  the  slow  old  book 
warriors  of  the  past. 

The  following  poem  is  the  only  one  we  have  been  able 
to  obtain  in  the  English  language,  touching  upon  any 
part  of  the  first  Italian  Campaign.  It  has  no  particular 
merit,  and  was  written,  evidently,  after  the  author  had 
read  Campbell's  "  Hohenlinden,"  and  in  imitation  <>f  that 
we'll  known  poem. 


76  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

THE    BATTLE    OF   LODI. 

JULIA  AUGUSTA  MAVNARD. 

The  signals  giv'n  !     Impatient  neigh 
The  snorting  chargers  at  the  cry 

Which  calls  proud  Austria  forth  to-day, 
To  "  charge  with  all  her  chivalry." 

Hark  to  the  deep  and  muffled  drum  ! 

Announcing  death  so  near  at  hand  ; 
The  foe  !  the  foe  !  they  onward  come  ; 

May  heaven  uphold  the  Austrian  band ! 

Mark  ye,  the  eagle  standards  wave 
Above  the  torrent's  crimson  tide  ! 

Oh  !  mark  ye  how  for  glory's  grave 
Those  gallant  horsemen  forward  ride  ! 

Two  despots  meet ;    the  one  by  right 
Defends  what  ages  make  his  own  ; 

The  other,  in  the  pride  of  might, 

Stands  forth  all-conquering  and  alone. 

This  last,  upon  the  battle-field, 

With  eye  which  beams  with  living  fire, 

Arm'd  with  a  dread  and  puissant  shield. 
Defies  the  German's  wildest  ire. 

Yon  bridge,  where  slaughter  yet  unsate, 

Still  revels  in  its  gory  bed, 
Groans  now  beneath  the  growing  weight 

Of  living — dying — and  of  dead. 

'T  is  o'er  !   and  France  foredoom'd  to  sway 
Where'er  her  flashing  eagle  shone, 

Hears  the  proud  victor  named  that  day 
In  victory's  shout — "  Napoleon  !  " 


PETIT  JEAN. 

UPON  Napoleon's  return  to  Paris,  after  his  first  Italian 
campaign,  he  was  received  with  the  wildest  enthusiasm 
by  the  people,  and  the  Directory  presented  him  with  a 
splendid  standard  on  which  was  the  following  inscription, 
which  inscription  told,  in  a  few  words,  the  history  of  the 
campaign  :  "  He  has  defeated  five  armies,  triumphed  in 
eighteen  battles  and  sixty  seven  combats.  Taken  prisoners 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  toldiers  of  the  enemy. 
He  has  sent  one  hundred  and  sixty  standards  of  the 
enemy  to  the  different  military  establishments  of  France ; 
one  thousand  one  hundred  and  fifty  pieces  of  cannon  to 
the  arsenals;  two  hundred  millions  of  francs  to  the  trea- 
sury ;  fifty-one  ships  of  war  to  the  ports;  treasures  of  art 
and  literature  to  the  galleries  and  libraries.  He  has  signed 
nine  treaties,  all  of  great  advantage  to  the  Republic.  He 
has  given  liberty  to  eighteen  communities  or  nations." 

Unmoved  by  the  plaudits  and  deaf  to  all  the  acclama- 
tions with  which  he  was  surrounded.  Napoleon  thought 
only  of  vaster  schemes  and  more  wonderful  achievements. 
From  his  boyhood  days  the  East  had  possessed  for  him  a 
charm  he  could  not  shake  off.  Even  in  disgrace,  he  had 
thought  of  offering  his  services  to  Turkey,  and  now, 
encouraged  by  the  victories  he  had  won  at  Lodi  and  Ar- 
cola,  he  allowed  his  mind  to  be  dazzled  with  the  possibility 
of  fulfilling  his  childhood's  dream  of  building  up  an  em- 

77 


78  A    METRICAL  HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

pire  in  the  East,  which  would  surpass  all  others  of  ancient 
or  modern  times.  The  Directory,  becoming  jealous  of 
the  popularity  of  the  young  general,  and  willing  to  remove 
him  from  Paris  and  from  France,  listened  to  his  arguments 
in  favour  of  sending  an  expedition  to  Egypt,  and  in  less 
than  six  months  after  his  return  from  Italy  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  land  of  the  Pharaohs.  On  July  I,  1798,  the 
shores  of  Egypt  loomed  up  in  sight  and  on  the  same 
evening  the  disembarkation  of  the  troops  commenced, 
which  continued  all  the  night.  Early  the  next  morning 
and  while  the  army  was  still  being  landed,  Napoleon  at 
the. head  of  three  thousand  men  marched  against  the  city 
of  Alexandria,  but  a  short  distance  away,  and  after  a  few 
hours  conflict,  his  first  Egyptian  victory  was  won.  Leav- 
ing Kleber  with  a  small  force  at  Alexandria,  Napoleon 
with  the  rest  of  his  army  set  out  to  cross  the  desert  to 
Cairo.  After  five  days  of  terrible  suffering  the  Nile  was 
reached,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-first  of  July, 
just  as  the  sun  was  showing  itself  above  the  horizon, 
Cairo  appeared  in  sight  upon  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river,  and  away  to  the  right,  out  upon  the  trackless  waste 
of  sands,  appeared  those  mighty  monuments  of  unknown 
antiquity,  the  Pyramids,  and  their  equally  ancient  and 
faithful  sentinel,  the  Sphinx.  Ten  thousand  Mameluke 
horsemen  were  between  the  French  army  and  the  base  of 
these  hoary  giants  of  the  Past  ;  and  here  was  fought  the 
battle,  _ which  in  one  day  made  Napoleon  master  of  all 
Egypt.  The  valour  of  the  French  army,  the  drummer 
boy  as  well  as  the  veteran,  was  tried  and  proved  at  the 
famous  battle  of  the  Pyramids. 


PETIT  JEAN.  79 

PETIT  JEAX. 

(At  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids,  July  21,  1798.) 

MARY  A.   HARK. 

Up  rose  the  sun  o'er  Egypt's  tents. 

O'er  Egypts  pyramids  and  sands, 
O'er  fierce  and  fiery  Mamelukes, 

And  o'er  Napoleon's  veteran  bands  ; 
The  palms  stood  still  in  the  hot  air, 

The  sad  and  silent  Sphinx  looked  on, 
While  over  all  the  Afric  sun 

In  burning,  blinding  splendour  shone. 

The  Mamelukes  fretted  on  their  steeds, 

Their  cimeters  all  bright  and  bare  ; 
The  French  stood  grimly  watching  them. 

Napoleon  in  the  centre  square. 
He  pointed  to  the  Pyramids: 

"  Comrades,  from  those  grand  heights,  I  say, 
The  brave  of  forty  centuries 

Will  watch  you  draw  your  swords  to-day  ! 

They  answered  him  with  ringing  shouts, 

And  ere  the  echoes  died  away, 
The  van,  like  a  tornado,  charged, 

Led  by  the  brave  and  bold  Dcsaix. 
Then  while  the  trusty  "  Forty-third  " 

Stood  waiting  for  the  word  to  charge, 
They  saw  their  little  drummer-boy 

Come  from  the  column  of  Dufarge. 

With  tottering  steps  and  bleeding  breast, 
But  bravely  beating  still  his  drum, 

He  said  with  sad  and  tearful  face, 
"  O  Forty-third,  to  y«m  I  Ve  come  ; 


8O  A   METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

I  've  come  to  you,  my  regiment, 
For  nothing  but  a  child  am  I  ; 

I  Ve  come  to  you,  my  comrades  brave, 
That  you  may  teach  me  how  to  die  ! 

"  I  '11  never  shame  you,  Forty-third  ; 

I  want  to  be  as  brave  and  true  ; 
I  want  to  die  as  brave  men  die, 

So  tell  a  poor  child  what  to  do." 
Then  Regnier  gnawed  his  long  gray  beard 

And  Joubert  turned  his  head  away  : 
The  lad  had  been  the  pet  of  all, 

And  now  they  knew  not  what  to  say, 

Till  Regnier  kissed  the  boy,  and  spoke  : 

"  Our  Petit  Jean,  I  see  't  is  plain 
Your  place  is  with  the  Forty-third  ; 

So  beat  us  now  the  charge  again, 
Then  follow,  and  we'll  show  you  how 

Death  comes  unto  the  soldier  brave. 
Comrades,  salute  the  nine-year-old, 

Who  '11  bravely  fill  a  soldier's  grave  !  " 

The  men's  hearts  glowed  like  living  coals, 

And  Regnier  cried,  "  Why  do  we  stay?' 
And  to  the  roll  of  the  little  drum 

They  rode  upon  their  vengeful  way  ; 
But  each  one  as  he  passed  the  child 

His  sword  with  earnest  purpose  drew, 
And  cried  in  brave  or  tender  tones, 

"  Mon  Petit  Jean,  Adieu  !   Adieu  !  " 

"  I  come,  my  regiment,  I  come !  " 
But  never  Petit  Jean  again 


PETIT  JEAN.  8 1 

His  drum  beat  for  the  Forty-third  ; 

They  found  him  lying  with  the  slain. 
They  put  the  medal  on  his  breast, 

Together  clasped  his  childish  hands, 
And  dug,  with  many  a  bitter  tear, 

A  grave  for  him  in  Egypt's  sands. 

'T  is  near  a  century  ago 

But  still  his  memory  is  green  ; 
The  Regiment  has  not  a  name 

So  dear  as  that  of  Petit  Jean  ; 
And  many  a  weary  soldier  has 

To  brave  and  noble  deeds  been  stirred 
By  the  tale  of  the  little  nine-year-old 

Who  died  among  the  Forty-third. 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SPHINX. 

AFTER  the  decisive  battle  of  the  Pyramids,  Napoleon 
entered  Cairo  with  great  pomp  and  enstalled  himself  in 
the  magnificent  palace  of  Mourad  Bey.  After  restoring 
order  and  attending  to  the  wants  of  the  people  ;  with  his 
gallant  army  comfortably  encamped  around  the  walls  of 
the  city,  and  with  his  mind  filled  with  gigantic  schemes 
for  the  future  glory  of  his  country,  this  wonderful  man, 
not  yet  thirty  years  of  age,  rode  out  one  day,  unattended, 
to  view  those  everlasting  monuments,  from  whose  summits 
forty  centuries  had  looked  down  upon  the  terrific  struggle 
just  ended  beneath  their  very  shadows.  Sitting  motion- 
less upon  his  horse  in  front  of  the  mysterious  Sphinx, 
one  does  not  have  to  stretch  fancy  very  far  in  order  to 
picture  the  following  scene. 

NAPOLEON    AND   THE    SPHINX. 

CHARI.KS  MACKAV. 

Beneath    him   stretched    the    sands  of    Egypt's    burning 

lands, 

The  desert  panted  to  the  sweltering  ray  ; 
The  camel's  plashing  feet,  with  slow,  uneasy  beat, 
Threw  up  the  scorching  dust  like  arrowy  spray, 
And  fierce  the  sunlight  glow'd  as  young  Napoleon  rode 
Around  the  Gallic  cam]),  companionless  that  day. 

82 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE   SPHINX.  83 

High  thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  unspoken  to  his  kind  ; 

Calm  was  his  face — his  eyes  were  blank  and  chill  ; 
His  thin  lips  were  compress'd  ;  the  secrets  of  his  breast 

Those  portals  never  pass'd,  for  good  or  ill ; 
And  dreaded — yet  adored — his  hand  upon  his  sword, 

He  mused  on  destiny,  to  shape  it  to  his  will. 

"  Ye   haughty    Pyramids !    thou    Sphinx !    whose    eyeless 
lids 

On  my  presumptuous  youth  seem  bent  in  scorn, 
What  though  thou  hast  stood  coeval  with  the  flood — 

Of  all  earth's  monuments  the  earliest  born  ; 
And  I  so  mean  and  small,  with  armies  at  my  call, 

And  recent  in  thy  sight  as  grass  of  yester-morn  ! 

"  Yet  in  this  soul  of  mine  is  strength  as  great  as  thine, 
O  dull-eyed  Sphinx,  that  wouldst  despise  me  now  ; 

Is  grandeur  like  thine  own,  O  melancholy  stone. 
With  forty  centuries  furrow'd  on  thy  brow: 

Deep  in  my  heart  I  feel  what  time  shall  yet  reveal, 

That  I  shall  tower  o'er  men,  as  o'er  these  deserts  thou. 

"  I  shall  upbuild  a  name  of  never-dying  fame, 
My  deeds  shall  fill  the  world  with  their  renown  ; 

To  all  succeeding  years,  the  populous  hemispheres 
Shall  pass  the  record  of  my  glories  down  ; 

And  nations  yet  to  be,  surging  from  Time's  deep  sea, 
Shall  teach   their  babes  the  name  of  great  Napoleon. 

"  On  History's  deathless  page,  from  wondering  age  to  age 
New  light  and  reverence  o'er  that  name  shall  glow. 

My  deeds  already  clone,  are  histories  begun, 

Whose  great  conclusions  centuries  shall  not  know. 

O  melancholy  Sphinx  !      Present  with  future  links, 
And  both  shall  vet  be  mine.      I  feel  it  as  I  go.'' 


84  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

Over  the  mighty  chief  a  shadow  came  of  grief, 
The  lips  gigantic  seem'd  to  move  and  say — 

"  Knovv'st  thou  his  name  that  bid  arise  yon  Pyramid? 
Know'st  thou  who  placed  me  where  I  stand  to-day? 

Thy  deeds  are  but  as  sand,  strewn  on  the  heedless  land  ; 
Think,  little  mortal,  think!  and  pass  upon  thy  way!  " 

"  Pass,  little  mortal,  pass  !  grow  like  the  vernal  grass, 
The  autumn  sickle  shall  destroy  thy  prime. 

Bid    nations    shout    the   word  which    ne'er    before   they 

heard, 
The  name  of  Glory,  fearful  yet  sublime. 

The  Pharaohs  are  forgot,  their  works  confess  them  not ; 
Pass,  Hero  !  pass  !  poor  straw  upon  the  gulf  of  time." 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    NILE. 

IN  the  midst  of  success  and  prosperity,  and  at  the  very 
dawn  of  the  brightest  day  that  had  appeared  to  the 
Egyptians  in  centuries,  Napoleon  lost  all.  Through  the 
negligence  of  Admiral  Brueys,  in  not  obeying  his  instruc- 
tions, the  whole  French  fleet  was  destroyed  in  the  bay  of 
Aboukir,  exactly  ten  days  after  the  brilliant  victory  won 
at  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids.  Well  might  Nelson  and 
the  English  nation  shout  for  joy.  Well  might  Napoleon 
exclaim  with  undescribable  emotion  :  "  Brueys,  what  have 
you  done  !  " 

THE    BATTLE    OF   THE   NILE. 

WILLIAM  I.ISI.K  KOWI.KS. 

Shout !  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ! 

Upon  the  shores  of  that  renowned  land, 

Where  erst  his  mighty  arm  and  outstretched  hand 

He  lifted  high, 
And  dashed,  in  pieces  dashed  the  enemy  ; — 

Upon  that  ancient  coast, 

Where  Pharaoh's  chariot  and  his  host 

He  cast  into  the  deep, 

Whilst  o'er  their  silent  pomp)  he  bid  the  swollen  sea  to 
sweep  ; 

Upon  that  eastern  shore, 

That  saw  his  awful  arm  revealed  of  yore, 
Again  hath  he  arisen,  and  opposed 

His  foes'  defying  vaunt  :   o'er  them  the  deep  hath  closed  ! 

S5 


86  A    METRICAL   HISTOKY  OF  XAPOLEON. 

Shades  of  mighty  chiefs  of  yore, 
Who  triumphed  on  the  self-same  shore  : 
Ammon,  who  first  o'er  ocean's  empire  wide 
Didst  bid  the  bold  bark  stem  the  roaring  tide  ; 

o 

Sesac,  who  from  the  cast  to  farthest  west 
Didst  rear  thy  pillars  over  realms  subdued  ; 

And  thou,  whose  bones  do  rest 
In  the  huge  pyramid's  dim  solitude, 
Beneath  the  uncouth  stone, 
Thy  name  and  deeds  unknown  ; 
And  Philip's  glorious  son, 
With  conquest  flushed,  for  fields  and  cities  won  ; 

And  thou,  imperial  Cresar,  whose  sole  sway 
The  long-disputed  world  at  length  confessed, 

When  on  these  shores  thy  bleeding  rival  lay  ! 
Oh,  could  ye,  starting  from  your  long,  cold  rest, 

Burst  Death's  oblivious  trance, 
And  once  again  with  plumed  pride  advance, 
How  would  ye  own  your  fame  surpassed, 
And  on  the  sand  your  trophies  cast, 
When,  the  storm  of  conflict  o'er, 
And  ceased  the  burning  battle's  roar, 

o 

Beneath  the  morning's  orient  light, 

Ye  saw,  with  sails  all  swelling  white, 
Britain's  proud  fleet,  to  many  a  joyful  cry, 
Ride  o'er  the  rolling  surge  in  awful  sovereignty  ! 

Calm  breathed  the  airs  along  the  evening  bay, 

Where,  all  in  warlike  pride, 
The  Gallic  squadron  stretched  its  long  array  ; 

And  o'er  the  tranquil  tide 

With  beauteous  bend  the  streamers  waved  on  high. 
But  ah  !  how  changed  the  scene  ere  night  descends  ! 
Hark  to  the  shout  that  heaven's  high  concave  rends! 

Hark  to  that  dvincr  crv  ! 


'  THE  BA  TTLE    OF  THE  NILE.  87 

Whilst  louder  yet  the  cannon's  roar 
Resounds  along  the  Nile's  affrighted  shore, 

Where  from  his  oozy  bed, 
The  cowering  crocodile  hath  raised  his  head  ! 

What  bursting  flame 
Lightens  the  long  track  of  the  gleaming  brine  ? 

From  yon  proud  ship  it  came, 
That  towered  the  leader  of  the  hostile  line  ! 
Now  loud  explosion  rends  the  midnight  air  ! 
Heard  ye  the  last  deep  groaning  of  despair? 
Heaven's  fiery  cope  unwonted  thunders  fill, 
Then   with   one   dreadful  pause,   earth,   air,   and  seas  are 
still ! 

But  now  the  mingled  fight 

Begins  its  awful  strife  again  ! 
Through  the  dun  shades  of  night 

Along  the  darkly  heaving  main 

Is  seen  the  frequent  flash  ; 

And  many  a  towering  mast  with  dreadful  crash 
Rings  falling.      Is  the  scene  of  slaughter  o'er? 

Is  the  death-cry  heard  no  more  ? 
Lo  !   where  the  east  a  glimmering  freckle  streaks, 
Slow  o'er  the  shadowy  wave  the  gray  dawn  breaks. 

Behold,  O  sun,  the  flood 
Strewed  with  the  dead,  and  dark  with  blood  ! 

Behold,  all  scattered  on  the  rocking  tide, 

The  wrecks  of  haughty  Gallia's  pride  ! 
But  Britain's  floating  bulwarks,  with  serene 
And  silent  pomp,  amid  the  deathful  scene 
Move  glorious,  and  more  beautiful  display 
Their  ensigns  streaming  to  thy  orient  ray. 

Awful  Genius  of  the  land  ! 

Who  (thy  reign  of  glory  closed) 


88  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

By  marble  wrecks,  half  hid  with  sand, 

Hast  mournfully  reposed ; 
Who  long  amid  the  wasteful  desert  wide, 
Hast  loved  with  deathlike  stillness  to  abide  ; 

Or  wrapped  in  tenfold  gloom, 
From  noise  of  human  things  for  ages  hid, 

Hast  sat  upon  the  shapeless  tomb 
In  the  forlorn  and  dripping  pyramid  ; 

Awake !  Arise  ! 

Though  thou  behold  the  day  no  more 
That  saw  thy  pride  and  pomp  of  yore ; 
Though,  like  the  sounds  that  in  the  morning  ray 

Trembled  and  died  away 

From  Memnon's  statue  ;  though,  like  these,  the  voice 
That  bade  thy  vernal  plains  rejoice, 

The  voice  of  Science,  is  no  longer  heard  ; 
And  all  thy  gorgeous  state  hath  disappeared  : 
Yet  hear,  with  triumph,  and  with  hope  again, 
The  shouts  of  joy  that  swell  from  thy  forsaken  main  ! 


CASABIANCA. 

MANY  deeds  of  heroism  are  recorded  to  the  credit  of 
both  the  French  and  the  English  sailors  who  took  part  in 
the  battle  of  the  Nile.  Admiral  Brueys  paid  with  his  life 
the  penalty  for  his  lack  of  judgment  and  his  failure  to 
obey  the  instructions  given  him,  and  fell,  fighting  gal- 
lantly, upon  the  quarter-deck  of  his  vessel.  Nelson, 
though  seriously  hurt,  refused  to  have  his  wounds  at- 
tended to  until  every  seaman  who  had  been  carried  below 
before  him  had  been  taken  care  of.  But  of  all  the  heroes 
of  that  day,  young  Casabianca,  the  son  of  the  commander 
of  the  Orient,  stands  at  the  head.  A  lad  of  about  thir- 
teen years  of  age,  he  had  displayed  the  utmost  activity 
and  courage  during  the  engagement.  Just  before  the  fire 
broke  out,  which  destroyed  his  vessel,  the  Commander 
Casabianca,  mortally  wounded,  had  been  carried  into  the 
gun-room.  His  son,  not  knowing  of  the  fate  which  had 
overtaken  his  father,  refused  to  leave  his  post,  even  after 
the  fire  had  completely  enveloped  the  vessel,  until  in- 
formed that  his  father  was  dying,  when  he  at  once  ran  to 
his  side.  No  threat,  no  command  could  move  him  from 
that  place,  and  when  the  fire  reached  the  magazine  and 
the  Orient  blew  up,  father  and  son  went  down  to  a 
noble  grave,  locked  in  each  other's  arms.  Mrs.  Hemans, 
although  not  adhering  strictly  to  history,  has  immortal- 
ised young  Casabianca's  heroism. 

89 


9O  A    METRICAL   JI1  STORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

CASABIANCA. 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck- 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm  ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on  ;  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word  ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  be  done?  " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father!  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I   may  yet  be  gone  !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  lie  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father  !   must   I  stay  !  " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

o 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 


CASABIANCA.  91 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendour  wild. 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

Then  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound  ; 

The  boy — Oh  !  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea — 

With  shroud  and  mast  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part — 
But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 

Was  that  young  faithful  heart. 


NAPOLEON    IN    BIVOUAC. 

ALTHOUGH  the  result  of  the  battle  of  the  Nile  was  a 
fatal  blow  to  the  hopes  of  Napoleon  of  ever  being  able 
to  carry  out,  to  a  successful  issue,  his  cherished  schemes 
concerning  the  establishment  of  a  mighty  empire  in  the 
East,  yet  he  did  not  relinquish  the  idea  of  doing  a  great 
work  there.  The  gallant  Desaix  was  sent  in  pursuit  of 
Mourad  Bey,  and  soon  he  had  possession  of  all  Upper 
Egypt,  over  which  Napoleon  made  him  Governor.  The 
French  scientists  minutely  examined  and  made  record  of 
every  object  of  interest  to  be  found  in  the  country  of  the 
old  Pharaohs.  Napoleon,  in  person,  inspected  the  pro- 
posed route  of  a  canal  at  Suez,  to  connect  the  Mediter- 
ranean with  the  Red  Sea,  and  it  was  at  the  identical  spot 
where  tradition  tells  us  the  children  of  Israel  crossed  the 
Red  Sea  that  he  and  his  party  were  nearly  drowned  by 
the  rising  tide.  "  Had  I  perished  there  like  Pharaoh," 
he  said,  ''  it  would  have  furnished  all  the  preachers  in 
Christendom  with  a  magnificent  text  against  me."  Then 
followed  the  battle  of  Mount  Tabor,  the  siege  of  Acre, 
and  the  glorious  victory  at  Aboukir.  Master  of  Egypt, 
his  work  done,  so  far  as  it  lay  in  his  power  to  accomplish 
it,  in  sight  of  Pompey's  Pillar  and  Cleopatra's  Needle, 
surrounded  by  the  shades  of  those  heroes  who  made 
ancient  history  famous,  Napoleon,  sitting  before  his  tent 


NAPOLEON  IN  BIVOUAC.  93 

with  a  map  of  the  world  on  his  knees,  falls  asleep,  to 
dream,  perchance,  of  future  glory  and  the  wondrous  fate 
still  to  be  his. 

NAPOLEON   IN    BIVOUAC. 

FERDINAND  FREIUGRATH. 

A  watch-fire  on  a  sandy  waste — 

Two  trenches — arms  in  stack — 
A  pyramid  of  bayonets — 

Napoleon's  bivouac ! 

Yonder  the  stately  grenadiers 

Of  Kleber's  vanguard  see  ! 
The  general  to  inspect  them  sits — 

Close  by  the  blaze  sits  he. 

Upon  his  weary  knee  the  chart, 

There,  by  the  glowing  heap, 
Softly  the  mighty  Bonaparte 

Sinks,  like  a  child  to  sleep. 

And  stretched  on  cloak  and  cannon, 

His  soldiers,  too,  sleep  well, 
And,  leaning  on  his  musket,  nods 

The  very  sentinel. 

Sleep  on,  ye  weary  warriors,  sleep  ! 

Sleep  out  your  last  hard  fight ! 
Mute,  shadowy  sentinels  shall  keep 

\Yatch  round  your  trench  to-night. 

Let  Murad's  horsemen  dash  along  ! 

Let  man  and  steed  come  on  ! 
To  guard  your  line  stalks  many  a  strong 

And  stalwart  Champion. 


94  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

A  Mede  stands  guard,  who  with  you  rode 
When  you  from  Thebes  marched  back, 

Who  after  King  Cambyses  strode, 
Hard  in  his  chariot's  track. 

A  stately  Macedonian 

Stands  sentry  by  your  line, 

Who  saw  on  Ammon's  plain  the  crown 
Of  Alexander  shine. 

And,  lo  !  another  spectre  ! 

Old  Nile  has  known  him  well; 
An  Admiral  of  Caesar's  fleet, 

Who  under  Caesar  fell. 

The  graves  of  earth's  old  lords,  who  sleep 

Beneath  the  desert  sands, 
Send  forth  their  dead,  his  guard  to  keep, 

Who  now  the  world  commands. 

They  stir,  they  wake,  their  places  take 
Around  the  midnight  flame; 

The  sand  and  mould  I  see  them  shake 
From  many  a  mail-clad  frame. 


I  see  the  ancient  armour  gleam 
With  wild  and  lurid  light  ; 

Old,  bloody  purple  mantles  stream 
Out  on  the  winds  of  ni<rht. 


The}-  float  and  flap  around  a  brow 
By  boiling  passion  stirred  ; 

The  hero,  as  in  anger,  now, 

Deep-breathing,  grasps  his  sword. 


NAPOLEON  IN  BIVOUAC.  95 

He  dreams  ; — a  hundred  realms,  in  dream, 

Erect  him  each  a  throne  ; 
High  on  a  car,  with  golden  beam, 

He  sits  as  Ammon's  son. 

With  thousand  throats,  to  welcome  him 

The  glowing  Orient  cries, 
While  at  his  feet  the  fire  grows  dim. 

Gives  one  faint  flash — and  dies. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

THE  expedition  to  Egypt  was  not  a  success,  except  so 
far  as  it  proved  the  skill  of  Napoleon  and  the  valour  of  the 
French  soldier,  and  that  it  added  valuable  information  to 
the  scientific  world.  The  loss  of  his  fleet  completely 
isolated  Napoleon  and  his  army  from  France  and  the 
outside  world.  Had  the  battle  of  the  Nile  been  won,  and 
had  Napoleon  firmly  established  the  empire  he  sought  to 
build  up  from  the  inactivity  and  gloom  of  centuries,  fancy 
can  only  conjecture  what  the  future  would  have  brought 
to  him.  As  it  was,  the  sovereignty  of  Egypt  alone  was 
too  small  a  prize  to  satisfy  the  ambition  of  this  wonderful 
young  man.  His  greater  plan  had  failed,  so  he  put  be- 
hind him  the  whole  scheme  and  looked  back  to  France 
for  a  more  promising  field.  For  ten  months  he  had 
received  no  news  from  home,  and  now,  when,  through  the 
means  of  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  he  had  placed  in  his  hands  a 
file  of  French  newspapers,  he  was  informed  that  every- 
thing was  going  wrong  in  France  ;  that  the  army  he  had 
left  so  victorious  in  Italy  had  been  driven  over  the  Alps, 
and  that  the  combined  forces  of  Europe  were  marching 
to  the  frontiers  of  the  harassed  and  sorely  tried  republic. 
He  determined  at  once  to  return,  and  on  the  night  of  the 
twenty-second  of  August,  1799,  with  a  few  chosen  com- 
rades, he  left  the  shores  of  Egypt.  The  assassination  of 

9C 


THE   BATTLE   OF  ALEXANDRIA.  97 

the  gallant  Kleber,  who  had  been  assigned  the  command 
of  the  army,  was  a  great  loss  to  the  French  cause  in 
Egypt,  and,  finally,  the  battle  of  Alexandria  brought  about 
the  end — the  evacuation  of  the  country  by  the  entire: 
French  army. 

THE    HATTLE    OF   ALEXANDRIA. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 

To  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
While  the  hero's  dirge  is  sung. 

Breathe  enchantment  to  our  cars. 

As  the  sun's  descending  beams, 

Glancing  o'er  thy  feeling  wire, 
Kindle  every  chord  that'gleams, 

Like  a  ray  of  heavenly  fire, 

Let  thy  numbers,  soft  and  slow, 
O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Bright  as  Beauty,  newly  born, 
Blushing  at  her  maiden  charms  ; 

Fresh  from  Ocean  rose  the  Morn, 
When  the  trumpet  blew  to  arms. 

Terrible  soon  grew  the  light 

On  the  Egyptian  battle-plain, 
As  the  darkness  of  that  night 

When  the  eldest  born  was  ^lain. 

7 


98  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Lashed  to  madness  by  the  wind. 
As  the  Red  Sea  surges  roar. 

Leave  a  gloomy  gulf  behind, 

And  devour  the  shrinking  shore; 

Thus,  with  overwhelming  pride, 
Gallia's  brightest,  boldest  boast, 

In  a  deep  and  dreadful  tide. 
Rolled  upon  the  British  host. 

Dauntless  these  their  station  held. 
Though  with  unextinguishcd  ire 

Gallia's  legions  thrice  repelled, 

Thrice  returned  through  blood  and  fire. 

Thus,  above  the  storms  of  time, 
Towering  to  the  sacred  spheres, 

Stand  the  Pyramids  sublime, — 
Rocks  amid  the  floods  of  years. 

No\v  the  veteran  chief  drew  nigh  ; 

Conquest  towering  on  his  crest, 
Valour  beaming  from  his  eye, 

Pity  bleeding  in  his  breast. 

Britain  saw  him  thus  advance 
In  her  guardian  angel's  form  ; 

But  he  lowered  on  hostile  France, 
Like  the  demon  of  the  storm. 

On  the  whirlwind  of  the  war 

High  he  rode  in  vengeance  dire  ; 

To  his  friends  a  leading  star, 
To  his  foes  consuming  fire. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

Then  the  mighty  poured  their  breath, 
Slaughter  feasted  on  the  brave  ! 

'T  was  the  carnival  of  death  : 
'T  was  the  vintage  of  the  grave. 

Charged  with  Abercrombie's  doom, 
Lightning  winged  a  cruel  ball : 

'T  was  the  herald  of  the  tomb. 
And  the  hero  felt  the  call,— 

Felt,  and  raised  his  arm  on  high  ; 

Victory  well  the  signal  knew, 
Darted  from  his  awful  eye, 

And  the  force  of  France  o'erthrew. 

But  the  horrors  of  that  fight 
Were  the  weeping  muse  to  tell, 

Oh,  't  would  cleave  the  womb  of  night, 
And  awake  the  dead  that  fell  ! 

Gashed  with  honourable  scars, 
Low  in  Glory's  lap  they  lie  ; 

Though  they  fell,  they  fell  like  stars, 
Streaming  splendour  through  the  sky. 


BONAPARTE. 

As  early  as  1800  England  had  begun  to  lampoon  Napo- 
leon, and  from  that  time  until  his  death  at  St.  Helena  there 
was  no  cessation  of  the  slanderous  and  scurrilous  attacks 
made  upon  him  by  English  writers.  \Yhen  these  attacks 
became  foul  and  indecent,  and  directly  charged  him  and 
his  whole  family  with  indulging  in  the  vilest  kinds  of  de- 
bauchery and  sensuality,  Napoleon  resented  them  and 
requested  the  English  Government  to  suppress  their  pub- 
lication and  to  punish  their  authors.  The  answer  to  his 
request  was  the  cowardly  one  that  the  English  Govern- 
ment could  not  interfere  with  the  liberty  of  the  press. 
The  following  lines,  written  by  an  English  clergyman 
shortly  after  the  return  of  the  French  Ann}'  from  Egypt,, 
is  a  mild  example  of  what  was  written  and  published  at 
that  time  in  England.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that 
Napoleon's  hatred  of  the  English  began  while  he  was  yet 
a  young  man,  and  lasted  even  to  the  time  of  Sir  Hudson 
Lowe,  his  English  jailor  during  the  last  six  years  of 
his  life? 

BONAPARTE ; 

AN  HEROIC  BALLAD,  WITH  A  SERMON  IN  ITS  BELLY,  WHICH  THAT 

RENOWNED   WARRIOR   AND   MOST   REVEREND   THEOLOGIAN 

PREACHED   AT   HIS  VISITATION   OF   THE  GOOD   I'EOIM.K 

OE   EGYPT   ;    WITH   EXPLANATORY   NOTES. 

GKOK<;K  lit 

Redoubted  Dra  wean  sirs, 
Extoll'd  by  our  grandsires 


/VIA'?'/:.  KM 

In  narrative,  episode,  stan/a.  or  strophe, 

Philip's  conquering  son. 

Kouli  Khan.  1'rester  John, 
Knight,  generalissimo,  soldan,  or  sophi. 

\Yho  have  topp'd   Fortune's  \\heel, 

Ami.  with  craft,  cuffs,  or  steel. 
Have  your  rivals  o'orreach'd,  your  antagonist  quell'd  'em. 

Since  you  've  all  had  your  day. 

For  a  royster  make  way. 
At  whose  nod  the  world  quakes  like  a  cra/y  old  beldam. 


Like  a  devil  he  '11  light, 

1  .ike  an  angel  indite  ; 
Nay,  should  Merlin  arise,  who  profess'd  the  Mack  .lit,  he 

And  his  imps  would  look  blue, 

And  his  cats  would  cry  "mew" 
At  this  raw-headed  and  bloody-bon'd  ehiel,  Honap.utc. 

1 11  t  he  mont  h   \\-iKlem.tire 

\Vhen,  because  that    elsewhere 
To  find  worth  like  their  own  \\.is  a  thing  unexpet  led, 

Those  desp'rate  stalcMjuacks, 

The  Convent  ioii.il    J  ,ies, 
By  bayonet  suffrage  themselves  re-elected. 

(  )n  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 

With  his  rapier  so  keen, 
That  eclips'd  all  the.  tools  of  chinirgica!  art ,  In- 

Cur'cl  feverish    I'arisians 

( )f  heat  s  and  di  vr-ion-,  ; 
Oh!    the  skilful  phlebot  oini  ,1 ,  f.iin'd   I'.oii.ip.u  I  «•  ! 


102  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Has  prescribed  of  pain,  malady,  suff'ring,  and  smart,  he 

For  aye  sets  you  free  ; 

Then  let  each  grave  M.  D. 
To  the  dogs  throw  his  physic,  cries  leech  Bonaparte. 

Some  aver  that  he  's  sent, 

Heaven's  Plenipotent, 
To  organise  Europe's  political  chaos  : 

This  we  hope  they  '11  make  good, 

Or  from  Lucifer's  stud 
He  might  else  be  mistaken,  perhaps,  for  a  stray  horse  : 

But  he  scruples  resign'd, 

For  he  's  promis'd  mankind 
( )f  his  mission  supernal  complete  demonstration  ; 

And  the  word  none  can  doubt 

Of  this  chieftain  devout, 
Who  the  creed  has  adopted  of  every  nation. 

CHORUS. 

Like  a  devil  he  '11  fight, 

Like  an  angel  indite  ; 
Nay,  should  Merlin  revive,  who  pofess'd  the  black  art,  he 

Would  be  somewhat  surpris'd, 

When  at  once  exorcis'd 
Of  his  family  fiends  by  devout  Bonaparte. 

To  the  African  coast 

He  led  a  huge  host 
Of  doughty  proficients  in  bloodshed  and  rapine, 

Who  the  windpipes  by  scores 

Of  Italian  Signores 
Had  sever'd,  and  spoil'd  all  their  quavering  and  scraping. 

Alexandria  they  reach'd, 

Where  a  sermon  he  preach'd, 


BO.VAr.4KTK.  \O 

"While  Egyptians  to  hear  him,  like  boys  to  a  show  ran. 

"  Sure  his  old  friend  in  black 

Has  sent  Mahomet  back," 
Cried  each  Iman  and  Cheik,  "  to  republish  the  Koran." 

CHORUS. 

Friend  Rowland,  I  fear, 

You  VI  look  mighty  queer. 
Should  this  militant  holder-forth  once  conn-  athwart   ye 

Though  you  beat  bulls  of  Hasan 

In  mouth  diapason. 
You  're  not  tit  to  cry  Amen  to  Saint   Bonaparte  ! 

lie  told  the  Egyptians 

All  kinds  and  descriptions 
( )f  men  in  the  eyes  of  their  Maker  were  equal  : 

"  And  truly."  quoth  he, 

"  That  they  're  all  so  to  me, 
1    11  warrant  you,  sirs,  you  shall  find  in  the  sequel  : 

All  's  fish  to  my  net, 

I  've  the  Popedom  o'er  set, 
And  those  blockheads  of  Malta,  destroy VI  in  a  trice  Yin  ; 

And  each  Mameluck  sot 

Shall  now  go  to  pot  ; 
Then  devoutly  let 's  join  to  anathematise  Yin. 

c  Hours. 

"  For  from  morning  to  night 

I  can  cant,  curse,  or  fight  "; 
And  should   Merlin  arise,  who  profess'd  the  Mack  ail,  lie 

And  his  cats  would  have  star'd. 

And  his  imps  have  been  scar'd, 
At  the  fulminant  doctrines  of  Saint  Honaparte. 


104  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  That  I  toil  thus  and  plod 

For  the  honour  of  God, 
All  must  own  who  don't  wilfully  misunderstand  it  ; 

Let  me  rob,  lie,  or  curse, 

Cut  a  throat  or  a  purse, 
To  sanction  each  crime  I  Ve  a  heavenly  mandate  ; 

So  for  his  soul's  health, 

When  the  secular  wealth 
Of  the  Pope  I  made  free  with,  his  pride  I  diminish'd  ; 

And  his  claim  to  a  mine 

Of  treasures  divine 
Ascertain'd,  when  his  course  apostolic  was  finish'd." 

CHORUS. 

Ye  miserable  crew. 

Think  what  must  ensue 

Should   Death,   'midst  your  money-bags   strike  with   his 
dart  ye  ; 

Then  give  each  his  strong  box 

To  this  Corsican  fox, 
And  your  passport  to  heaven  shall  be  sign'd — Bonaparte. 

"  Stark  blind  he  must  be, 

Who  's  unable  to  see, 
That  Destiny  guides  all  my  grand  operations  ; 

Bade  me  sail  from  Toulon, 

Arm'd  writh  sabre  and  gun, 
To  teach  Alexandrian  sufferers  patience  : 

But  since  God  me  enjoin'd 

To  be  clement  and  kind 
To  the  people  of  Egypt,  each  Islamite  brother, 

Who  may  doubt  my  good  will, 

Cannot  sure  take  it  ill 
To  be  butcher'd  in  this  world  and  damn'd  in  the  other  ! 


HONAPAKTE.  IO5 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  this  merciful  wight ! 

Sure  his  sermon  polite, 
If  Merlin  had  heard,  who  profess'd  the  black  art,  he 

His  conjuring  cap 

Would  have  sold  for  a  scrap 
Of  the  rhetoric  employ'd  by  humane  Bonaparte. 

"As  for  you,  Mr.  Pacha, 

Of  me,  Captain  Flash,  ah  ! 
With  what  pleasure  you  '11  hail  the  auspicious  arrival  ! 

And  advantage  resulting 

From  thence  to  the  Sultan, 
When  Mameluck  knaves  to  Old  Nick  I  shall  drive  all ; 

You  're  in  pitiful  case, 

For  their  rascally  Beys, 
Whom  you  ought  to  control,  keep  you  under  at  Cairo  ; 

But  they  sha'n't  show  their  noses, 

I  'm  greater  than  Moses, 

And  I  '11  plague   the  dogs   worse  than   that  prophet    did 
Pharaoh." 

CHORUS. 

Then  let  's  curse  the  vile  race 

Of  these  impious  Beys  ; 
And  should  Merlin  arise,  who  profess'd  the  black  art,  he 

And  his  quorum  of  wizards 

Would  growl  in  their  gizzards, 
To  be  outdone  a  cursing  by  Saint  Bonaparte. 

"  Most  orthodox  Mufti, 
(Don't  think  I  talk  stuff  t'  ye") 

Were  it  not  that  the  Mam'luck  's  alive  and  looks  still  grim. 
And  that  first  my  grand  mission 
Exacts  his  perdition. 


IO6  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

To  Medina  I  VI  trot,  a  true  Mussulman  pilgrim  : 

Shall  the   Mameluck  brag, 

That  your  house  or  your  nag, 

He  '11  make  free  with,  and,  if  you  've  a  pretty  girl  take 
her? 

Well  your  Reverence  may  stare  ! 

This  would  make  a  saint  swear  ; 
Then  seize  him,  ye  black  angels,  Moukir  and  Quakir!' 

CHORUS. 

Oh  !  this  Mameluck  dog, 

Who  eats  up  your  prog, 

And,    by  hook    or    by    crook,  wins    each    pretty   slave's 
heart,  he 

Shall  find  such  curst  vermin 

To  slay  and  extermin- 
Ate.  Mahomet  sends  in  the  nick  Bonaparte. 

"  For,  excepting  your  own, 

Other  prophet  there  's  none 
Whose  predictions  I  hold  to  be  worthy  of  credence  : 

Of  my  feats  he  has  wrote, 

So  no  hole  in  his  coat 
I  shall  pick, — all  the  rest  yields  to  Me  the  precedence  : 

In  each  heart,  in  each  head, 

Ev'ry  crotchet  I  've  read, 
Ev'ry  thought  I  develop,  in  knowledge  surpass  all  ; 

In  vain  to  my  course 

Is  oppos'd  human  force  ; 
Success  crowns  my  efforts,  and  Fortune  's  my  vassal.'' 

CHORUS. 

Cheiks,  Imans,  and  Cadis, 
Oh,  what  a  rare  blade  is 


BONAPARTE.  IO/ 

This  Corsican  preacher,  who  sail'd  from  afar  t*  ye  ! 
One  Prophet  's  your  boast, 
Now  you  Ye  two  to  your  cost 

Ask  the  Devil,  and  he  '11  make  a  third  of  the  party. 

"  To  the  doctrine  I  broach, 

Which  is  sound  as  a  toach, 
Bid  Egyptians  attend  for  their  edification  : 

Each  suffering  race 

Is  advancing  apace 
To  the  a?ra  of  politic  Regeneration  : 

Then  like  gold  from  the  mint 

Though  you  '11  shine,  take  a  hint, 
The  regeneration  that  's  wrought  by  my  soldiers, 

Of  Cheik,  Dervise,  or  Copt, 

When  the  head  we  have  cropp'd, 
Will  ne'er  make  another  head  sprout  from  his  shoulders. 

CHORUS. 

"  Then  our  knav'ry  abet  ; 

And  expel  that  curs'd  set, 
The  English — ('t  is  Mahomet's  orders  I  bear  t'  ye) 

And  of  heav'n  you  '11  be  cits, 

Where  fresh,  black-ey'd  young  tits 
You  shall  snore  by  the  side  of:  —  believe  Bonaparte." 

But  when  Nelson  with  Brueys 

And  his  ships  play'd  the  deuce 
Burnt,  captur'd,  or  sunk,  or  blown  out  of  the  water: 

To  regen'rate  the  navy 

Dispatch'd  to  Old  Davy, 
Wras  a  project  that  non-pi uss'd  the  regenerator, 

Then  off  in  a  pet 

For  Acre  he  set  ; 
"  Dsrezzar  Pacha  's  no  more,  in  three  davs  vou 


IO8  A    METRICAL   IIISTOXY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

But  methinks  't  were  as  well, 
Ere  the  bear's  skin  you  sell, 
To  make  sure  mighty  warrior,  of  killing  the  bear  : 

CHORUS. 

For,  thanks  to  Sir  Sidney, 

And  tars  of  his  kidney, 
Old  Dgezzar  's  at  Acre  alive  yet  and  hearty  ; 

While  the  French,  foil'd'  and  bit, 

To  the  bottomless  pit 
He  damns,  with  their  vapouring  chief,  Bonaparte. 

Such  an  awkward  rebuff 

As  our  hero  so  bluff 
Never  yet  had  encounter'd,  he  took  it  in  dudgeon  ; 

Thought  this  little  great  Don, 

Let  ev'ry  man  John 
Stay  and  perish  in  Egypt,  to  France  I  '11  be  trudging: 

There  to  cut  a  grand  swell, 

Of  the  thousands  I  '11  tell, 
That  were  slain  in  hot  blood  by  my  myrmidons  bold  : 

But  the  notable  trick 

That  I  play'd  my  own  sick 
I  '11  suppress,  and  the  thousands  I  murder'd  in  cold. 

CHORUS. 

Sure  the  wit  in  my  sconce 

That  of  all  my  savants 
Put  together  outweighs,  for  in  proof  of  my  art  I 

Know  the  time  when  to  run, 

And  save  number  one  ; 
"  Gallant  leaders  are  scarce,"  quoth  discreet  Bonaparte. 

This  chief,  stout  and  might}-. 
He  ne'er  said,  "  Good-by  t'  ye," 


BON  A  PA  R  TE.  1 09 

But  stole  off  :    and  as    soon  as  he    reach'd    the    French 
shore,  he 

For  his  brave  tergiversing, 

And  murd'ring  and  cursing, 
Was  deservedly  deem'd  to  be  "  cover'd  with  glory  "  : 

While  the  Monsieurs  all  strove, 

By  their  shouting,  to  prove 

That  their  lungs  were  as  sound    as   their  brains  they  were 
addle  : 

Then  like  over-drove  hacks, 

They  all  bow'd  down  their  backs ; 
And  this  new  Alexander  jump'd  into  the  saddle. 

CHORUS. 

And  since  he  's  got  there, 

Unhorse  him  who  dare, 
Let  his  French  Rosinante  kick,  curvet,  and  start,  he 

Sticks  spurs  in  his  sides, 

And  to  Belzebub  rides, 
Like  a  beggar  on  horseback,  the  grand  Bonaparte. 

While  the  French  sneak  and  quail, 

And  their  despot  regale 
With  a  hodge-podge  of  praise  that  would  make  a  dog  sick, 

The  free  British  press, 

Without  fear  of  finesse, 
Speaks  truth  of  the  Consul  in  spite  of  Old  Xick. 

He,  fierce  as  a  Tartar, 

To  give  us  no  quarter, 

His  cut-throats  commands,  should  they  once  come  across 
us, 

And  swears  he  '11  leap  over 

Our  channel  to  Dover  ; 
A  pretty  good  stride  for  a  pocket  Colossus  ! 


110  A    METRICAL   JI I  STORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

CHORUS. 

Fam'd  Giant  Woglog, 

Though  this  Consular  frog, 
In  dimensions  compar'd  is  no  more  than  a  wart  t'  ye, 

With  a  long  bow  he  shoots, 

And  "  your  seven-league  boots 
To  a  hair  they  would  fit  me,"  quoth  grand  Bonaparte 

Let  our  plaudits  enhance 

The  wisdom  of  France, 
Since  the  blood  of  her  princes  and  nobles  she  shed. 

And  so  sensibly  chose, 

With  a  ring  in  her  nose, 
At  a  Corsican  harlequin's  will  to  be  led. 

What  if  French,  Dons,  and  Dutch, 

He  has  got  in  his  clutch, 
Controls  the  Italians,  and  tramples  the  Switzers, 

Vet  he  'd  fain  come  and  dine. 

On  our  English  sirloin, 
But  he  fears  we  shall  curry  his  hide  with  the  spit,  sirs. 

CHORUS. 

Sure  a  chief  so  renown'd 

Was  not  born  to  be  drown 'd  ; 
But  when  he  's  safe  landed,  John  Bull  says,  a  cart  he 

And  a  gibbet  and  cord 

Keeps  in  store  to  reward 
The  transcendent  deserts  of  the  grand  Bonaparte. 


NAPOLEON,  FIRST  CONSUL. 
From  an  engraving  by  Le  Vacliex. 

Paris,    1806. 


THE  BELLS  OF   FONTAINEBLEAU. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  eighth  of  October,  1799.  a 
French  fleet  of  four  vessels  dropped  anchor  in  the  harbour 
of  Fregus.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
had  any  fleet,  large  or  small,  convoyed  so  important  a 
personage  as  did  this  little  insignificant  squadron  of  two 
frigates  and  two  corvettes.  A  signal  at  the  masthead  of 
the  flagship  told  the  people  on  shore  that  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte was  on  board.  For  fifty  days  had  these  vessels  been 
tossed  about  by  adverse  winds  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
Mediterranean,  surrounded  and  sought  for  by  the  power- 
ful squadrons  of  England,  Russia,  and  Turkey.  The  very 
day  before  Fregus  was  reached,  the  English  fleet  was 
sighted  in  the  distance,  and  the  last  night  spent  on  board 
ship  was,  indeed,  a  trying  one  to  Napoleon  and  those  who 
accompanied  him.  The  morning  sun  arose,  clear  and 
bright,  and  revealed  the  enemy  far  away  to  the  horizon, 
and  France  and  safety  near  at  hand. 

Napoleon's  return  from  Egypt  was  hailed  by  all  France 
with  loud  shouts  of  joy.  On  every  side  went  up  the  cry  : 
"  Long  live  Bonaparte,  the  Conqueror  of  Italy,  the  Con- 
queror of  Egypt,  the  Liberator  of  France."  Leaving 
Fregus  the  day  after  landing.  Napoleon  travelled,  as 
rapidly  as  post-horses  could  carry  him,  on  to  Paris,  which 
city  he  entered  on  the  seventeenth  of  October.  The  iSth 


112  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Brumaire  (November  9,  1799)  ;  the  overthrow  of  the 
Directory,  and  the  establishment  of  a  new  Consular  gov- 
ernment, with  Napoleon  named  as  one  of  the  Consuls, 
are  matters  of  history  familiar  to  every  reader.  Though 
not  decreed  First  Consul,  Napoleon  assumed  that  position 
at  the  first  meeting  held  with  his  colleagues,  and  neither 
they  nor  the  people  disputed  his  right  to  it.  In  fact,  the 
new  constitution,  adopted  shortly  afterwards  by  a  vote 
of  over  three  millions  to  about  fifteen  hundred,  expressly 
named  him  First  Consul  of  the  French  Republic.  The 
middle  of  the  ladder  was  reached,  and  passed,  and  four 
years  more  would  see  this  world's  wonder  at  the  top. 
Peace  was  soon  restored  to  France,  but  it  was  not  to  last. 
In  May,  1800,  we  find  the  First  Consul  again  preparing 
for  war.  All  his  efforts  to  avert  it  had  failed  ;  and  like  an 
avalanche  he  was  about  to  fall  upon  his  foes  and  crush 
them. 

The  following  picture  of  Napoleon  is  a  good  one,  ex- 
cept the  fact  that  he  was  First  Consul  and  not  Emperor, 
and  there  were  then  no  Marshals  yet  in  his  train. 

THE    BELLS    OE    EOXTAIXEKLEAU. 

WAI.TKR  THORNHCRY. 

Napoleon  in  the  gray  surtout 

That  kings  had  learned  to  dread, 
With  close-clenched  hands  behind  his  back 

And  heavy  bended  head, 
Climbed  slowly  (lost  in  battle  plans) 

A  hill  near  Fontainebleau, 
One,  two,  three,  four,  the  village  chimes 

Came  to  him  from  below. 


THE  BELLS  OF  FONTAINEBLEA  U.  113 

The  marshals,  glittering  with  gold, 

Paced  laughingly  along, 
Nor  hushed  the  scandal  and  the  jest, 

Or  scrap  of  opera  song  ; 
The  Emperor  stood  silent  there, 

A  monarch  turned  to  stone, 
Nor  smiled,  nor  moved, — where  great  men  stand 

The  spot  becomes  a  throne. 

Below,  the  reapers,  singing,  toiled 

With  sickles  (not  with  swords), 
Or  down  in  clusters  round  the  sheaves 

Lay  revelling  like  lords  ; 
The  soldiers  pointed  to  the  slopes 

That  bound  the  golden  plain, 
And  almost  wished  that  France  were  lost, 

To  win  it  o'er  again. 

The  gray  man  stood,  one  foot  outstretched, 

As  if  upon  a  foe, 
He  cared  not  for  the  happy  sight, 

The  plenty  spread  below, 
Although  the  bells  shook  music  down 

From  yonder  village  tower, — 
And  hark!  the  royal  voice  of  Time, 

Exulting  in  his  power. 

At  last  he  spoke,  and  slowly  turned 

(A  moisture  in  his  eyes), — 
Massena  gave  a  shrug  that  showed 

A  cynical  surprise  : 
"  Long  years  ago,  at  Malmaison, 

When  all  unknown  of  men, 
I  heard  just  such  a  laughing  peal, 

And  I  was  happy  then." 


114  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  then 

Sat  down  upon  the  hill, 
Tracing  upon  the  level  sand 

With  sword-sheath  (Oh,  that  will ! ) 
The  star  redoubt,  the  diamond  fort, 

The  battle  lines  again  :— 
A  month  from  that  he  won  the  day 

Upon  Marengo's  plain. 


NAPOLEON  CROSSING  THE  ALPS. 

THE  successful  crossing  of  the  Alps  by  the  French 
army,  over  the  Great  St.  Bernard  and  other  passes,  was  a 
feat  worth\r  the  genius  of  Napoleon.  Hannibal  had  con- 
quered a  way  over  those  snow-clad  hills,  why  should  not 
he  ?  Sending  his  engineers  ahead  to  reconnoitre  the 
proposed  route,  the}1  returned  and  reported  a  passage 
possible.  "  Let  us  set  forward  then,"  was  the  immediate 
answer,  and  the  troops  were  at  once  in  motion.  The 
passage  of  the  main  army,  commanded  by  Napoleon  in 
person,  was  over  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  and  it  took  four 
days  to  accomplish  it.  Not  an  accident  of  note  occurred  ; 
and  with  his  infantry,  his  cavalry,  and  his  artillery  intact, 
and  safely  past  the  barrier  which  had  separated  him  from 
his  enemies,  Napoleon  was  about  to  surprise  the  Austrians 
and  to  astonish  the  whole  civilised  world  by  the  brilliancy 
and  rapidity  of  his  movements,  and  by  the  result  obtained 
in  the  glorious  victory  won  at  Marengo. 

NAI'OLKOX    CROSSING    TIIL    A  LI'S. 

IAMKS  WILLIAM    MIII.KK. 

The  morning  sun  lay  bright  and  calm. 

On  Bernard's  hoary  brow  ; 
No  warlike  trumpet's  fierce  alarm. 

Woke  the  stern  echoes  now. 


Il6  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

You  would  have  deem'd,  in  that  still  hour. 
No  mortal  voice  might  there  have  power. 

Then  stood  upon  that  voiceless  height 

One  Form,  in  like  proud  rest; 
Yet  fires,  that  gave  his  great  eye  light, 

Were  struggling  in  his  breast : 
It  heav'd,  as  Alpine  mountains  heave 
When  earthquakes  in  their  wombs  conceive. 

And,  Bernard,  know'st  thou  not  the  tread, 

That  prostrate  kingdoms  know, 
That  stands  upon  thy  haughty  head, 

As  o'er  a  conquered  foe  ! 

Know'st  thou  not  him  whose  trump  shook  down 
Thy  avalanche,  as  monarch's  crown  ! 

Yet  thou  shalt  know  him,  when  his  name 

Shalt  shake  a  world  ;  and  thou 
Shalt  lend  thine  echoes  to  his  fame, 

Thy  laurels  for  his  brow. 
His  mountain-monument  shall  be 
Coeval,  haughty  Alp,  with  thee. 

Already  his  proud  glance  is  turn'd 

Up  from  his  conquest's  scene  ; 
And  kneeling  Italy  is  spurn'd, 

As  captive  all  too  mean  ! 
From  the  stern  victor's  brow,  in  scorn. 
The  chieftain's  blood-won  wreath  is  torn. 

Even  now,  as  from  a  mighty  throne, 

The  monarch's  eye  looks  forth. 
The  deserts  of  the  torrid  zone — 

The  icebergs  of  the  north — 
Melt  in  his  fierce  ambition's  bla/e, 
Or  chill  with  terror  in  his  gaze. 


NAPOLEON  CROSSING  THE   ALPS.  \\J 

He  stood  alone :  the  watching  forms 

Of  the  few  bending  near, 
Were  darken'd  in  his  bosom's  storms, 

And  silent  to  his  ear. 
Had  he  not  bid  his  legions  go, 
Nor  heard  their  parting  trumpets  blow! 

Had  he  not  passed  through  banner'd  host 

And  cannon's  flash,  as  one 
Who  in  the  desert's  maze  is  lost ! 

He  stood  there — all  alone. 
And  spoke  in  accents  proud  and  high 
His  doom — "  I  will  be  crreat — or  die." 


NAPOLEON  AT  ISOLA  BELLA. 

TUP:  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  in  her  Anecdotes  and  Bio- 
grapJiical  Sketches,  writes  as  follows  to  a  friend  under 
date  of  June,  1822:  "We  went  to  the  Isola  Bella,  and 
there  saw  (but  faintly)  what  Bonaparte  had  written  on  a 
tree — '  Batalia.'  It  was  the  first  time  he  went  to  Milan, 
and  whilst  still  only  General,  and  is  carved  on  the  rind  of 
the  largest  laurel  I  ever  saw — quite  a  tree,  like  a  good 
siz'd  elm  tree.  Was  it  an  omen  of  his  future  glory,  and 
did  he  so  chuse  it  as  great  was  his  glory — and  great  his 
downfall  ? — never  was  greater  moral  lesson  given  to 
man." 

Lord  Lytton,  in  making  this  incident  in  Napoleon's 
life  the  subject  of  the  following  poem,  asserts  that  it  was 
a  few  days  before  the  battle  of  Marengo  that  the  incident 
occurred  ;  which  account  would  agree  with  that  given 
by  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Other  historians  have 
mentioned  the  same  fact,  and  there  seems  to  be  no- 
doubt  of  its  truth. 

XAPOLKOX    AT    ISOLA    BELLA. 

LORD  LYTTON. 

O  Fairy  island  of  a  fairy  sea, 

Wherein  Calypso  might  have  spelled  the  Greek, 
<  )r  Flora  piled  her  fragrant  treasury, 

Culled  from  each  shore  her  zephyr's  wings  could  seek 
From  rocks  where  aloes  blow. 
n3 


NAPOLEON  AT  /SOLA    BELLA.  I  19 

Tier  upon  tier,  Hesperian  fruits  arise  ; 

The  hanging  bowers  of  this  soft  Babylon  ; 
An  India  mellows  in  the  Lombard  skies, 

And  changelings,  stolen  from  the  Lybian  sun, 
Smile  to  yon  Alps  of  snow. 

Amid  this  gentlest  dreamland  of  the  wave 

Arrested,  stood  the  wondrous  Corsican  ; 
As  if  one  glimpse  the  better  angel  gave 

Of  the  bright  garden-life  vouchsafed  to  man 
Ere  blood  defiled  the  world. 

He  stood, — that  grand  Sesostris  of  the  North, — 

While  paused  the  car  to  which  were  harnessed  kings. 

And  in  the  airs,  that  lovingly  sighed  forth 
The  balms  of  Araby,  his  eagle-wings 
Their  sullen  thunder  furled. 

And  o'er  the  marble  hush  of  those  large  brows 
Dread  with  the  awe  of  the  Olympian  nod, 

A  giant  laurel  spread  its  breathless  boughs, 
The  prophet-tree  of  the  dark  Pythian  godr 
Shadowing  the  doom  of  thrones  ! 

What,  in  such  hour  of  rest  and  scene  of  joy, 
Stirs  in  the  cells  of  that  unfathomed  brain  ? 

Comes  back  one  memory  of  the  musing  boy. 
Lone  gazing  at  the  yet  unmeasured  main. 
Whose  waifs  are  human  bones? 

\Vrite  on  the  sacred  bark  such  native  prayer, 
As  the  mild  power  may  grant  in  coming  years, 

Some  word  to  make  thy  memory  gentle  there  ; 
More  than  renown,  kind  thought  for  men  endears, 
A  hero  to  mankind. 


I2O  A    METRICAL   J II STORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Slow  moved  the  mighty  hand, — a  tremor  shook 

The  leaves,  and  hoarse  winds  groaned  along  the  wood 

The  Pythian  tree  the  damning  sentence  took, 
And  to  the  sun  the  battle-sword  of  blood 
Glared  from  the  gashing  rind. 

So  hast  thou  writ  the  word,  and  signed  thy  doom  : 

Farewell,  and  pass  upon  thy  gory  way. 
The  direful  skein  the  pausing  Fates  resume  ! 

Let  not  the  Elysian  grove  thy  steps  delay 
From  thy  Promethean  goal. 

The  fatal  tree  the  abhorrent  word  retained 

Till  the  last  battle  on  its  bloody  strand 
Flung  what  were  nobler  had  no  life  remained, — 

The  crownless  front,  and  the  disarmed  hand. 
And  the  foiled  Titan  soul ; 

Now,  year  by  year,  the  warrior's  iron  mark 

Crumbles  away  from  the  majestic  tree, 
The  indignant  life-sap  ebbing  from  the  bark 

Where  the  grim  death-word  to  humanity 
Profaned  the  Lord  of  Day. 

High  o'er  the  pomp  of  blooms,  as  greenly  still, 
Aspires  that  tree, — the  archetype  of  fame, 

The  stem  rejects  all  chronicles  of  ill, 

The  bark  shrinks  back, — the  tree  survives  the  same, 
The  record  rots  away. 


DESAIX. 
From  an  engraving  by  Elizabeth  G.  Herhan  after  Guerin. 

Paris,    1798. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MARENGO. 

HAD  Napoleon  lost  the  battle  of  Marengo,  it  is  safe  to 
say  he  never  would  have  worn  the  crown  of  France.  A 
return  to  Paris,  defeated  in  Italy,  meant  for  him  a  forced 
retirement  from  the  head  of  National  affairs  and  the  sub- 
stitution of  Carnot,  or  some  other  sturdy  republican  in 
his  place.  With  such  a  change,  at  that  time,  Waterloo, 
in  all  human  probability  would  never  have  been  fought, 
and  "  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  "  would  never  have  become 
history.  The  escape  was  a  narrow  one.  In  the  space  of 
half  an  hour,  what  appeared  to  be  a  crushing  defeat  was 
turned  into  a  glorious  victory.  To  Desaix's  opportune 
arrival  upon  the  field  and  to  Kellerman's  masterly  cavalry 
charge,  a  great  share  of  the  glory  of  that  day  is  due.  The 
victory  won  was  decisive  and  the  campaign  ended  with 
the  close  of  the  battle.  Within  two  months  after  leaving 
Paris,  Napoleon  returned— again  the  saviour  of  France. 

The  campaign  of  1800  will  ever  be  recorded  as  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  achievements  in  history,  and  the  one 
which  bore  the  mightiest  results  to  the  man  who  phmned 
and  carried  it  out  to  a  successful  issue. 

THE    BATTI.K    OF    MARENGO. 
(By   Bonaparte.) 

ROBERT  MACK. 

From  flattering  crowds,  and  laurel  crowns, 
To  muse  in  thought  profound. 


122  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

An  evening's  hour  I  sometimes  seize, 
And  sigh  beneath  the  Western  breeze, 
Which  o'er  these  torn  demolish'd  trees, 
Floats  awfully  around. 

My  friend — how  mournful  are  these  plains  ; 
How  deep  the  solemn  silence  reigns, 

Where  nature  lately  smil'd  ! 
Yonder  where  tulips  blooming  stood, 

And  roses  blush'd  around  ; 
Gaunt  mastiffs  gorge,  on  lapper'd  blood, 

And  vultures  sweep  the  ground  ! 
All  round  for  miles,  tremendous  ruin  's  spread  ! 
By  whom  ?  you  '11  cry  : 
Heaven,  I  reply. 
Melas  and  I 
Were  but  the  instruments,  by  whom  whole  nations  bled  ! 

Friend  L.,  to  you,  on  trembling  wing, 
The  muse  in  shudd'ring  tones  shall  sing, 

Thalia's  self  shall  tell  ; 

Shall  paint  that  bloody  scene,  that  dreadful  sight, 
Which  stopp'd  the  songs  in  heaven,  and  turn'd  the  day 
to  night, 

And  made  a  pause  in  hell ! 
Seraphs,  from  heaven's  high  battlements, 

Look'd  down,  and  dropp'd  a  tear. 
Wrap'd  round  with  smoke,  form'd  gloom,  the  sun 

Gleam'd  with  a  blacken'd  red  ! 
While  devils,  thinking  time  was  done, 
That  God,  to  finish  had  begun, 
And  the  last  hour  at  last  was  come. 
Darted  from  earth,  swift  to  their  home, 

And  hid  in  hell   for  fear  ! 


THE  BATTLE   OF  MARENGO.  123 

When  from  the  slumbers  of  the  night, 

At  morning  light  I  rose, 
My  soul  unusual  ardours  felt, 

Seem'd  kindling  to  a  flame  ; 
Impell'd  by  heaven,  my  horse  I  sprung, 

And  bounded  to  the  plain. 

Then  what  a  sight  my  wondering  eyes  beheld ! 
Austria's  legions  tow'ring  o'er  the  field  ! 
Compact  and  strong, 
The  dreadful  throng, 
Mov'd  firmly  on  ; 

As  if  to  force  the  Gaulic  lines,  or  storm  the  gates  of  Death  ! 
If  that  's  your  mind,  exclaim'd  my  soul, 
Hungary's  passing  bell  may  toll, 
For  here  in  blood  your  chiefs  shall  roll, 

And  pant  away  their  breath. 

Along  Bormida's  broken  hills, 

Between  the  river  and  the  north, 

To  keep  our  foes  from  marching  forth, 

Our  army  held  its  posts  ; 
The  spacious  plain,  that  lay  between 
Those  hills  and  deep  Bormida's  stream, 

Roar'd  with  the  Austrian  hosts. 
One  noble  pass,  nature  had  here  supplied  ; 
A  smooth  defile  some  hundred  paces  wide. 

At  all  these  posts  our  lines  were  thin, 

For  brave   Desaix,  with  half  the  men. 

Lay  in  reserve  behind. 

But  seeing  now,  the  hour  was  come, 

When  all  was  lost  and  all  was  won, 

I  cried,   "  Let  swiftest  couriers  run, 

And  all  our  powers  be  joined." 

Meantime,  the  Austrian  phalanx  form'd 
In  terrible  array  ; 


124  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Proud  Melas,  in  refulgent  arms, 

Rides  through  his  host,  their  courage  warms, 

And  cries — "  Behold  the  day  : 
Behold  the  day,  by  Heaven  design'd, 
To  crush  th'  oppressors  of  mankind  ! 
Be  men  this  day,  and  down  the  tyrant's  hurl'd. 

This  day,  the  Corsican  comes  down  ; 
This  day  we  ransom  Capet's  Crown, 
And  peace  restore  unto  a  bleeding  world  ! 

This  said,  to  eighty  thousand  men, 

The  bloody  word  was  given  ; 
Whose  dread  reply  embowell'd  air, 

Shook  earth,  and  enter'd  heaven  ! 

In  haste,  through  Gallia's  lines  I  rode, 

Along  the  dreadful  van  ! 
With  military  grandeur  swell'd, 

I  scarcely  felt  as  man  ! 
To  ardent  warriors,  loud  I  cried  : 
"  Ye  sons  of  France,  ye  heroes  tried 

Beneath  the  burning  sun, 
Who  thrice  have  thunder'd  down  the  Alps, 

And  Italy  o'errun  ; 
Ye  shakers  of  Vienna's  walls  ! 
To  you,  your  former  glory  calls  : 
I  'm  too  immense  for  faith,  without  renewed  proof. 

In  thunder,  then,  convince  the  world, 
Your  standard  over  conquer'd  Nile  unfurl'd, 
That  mighty  Charles  and  Wurmser  overthrown, 
Those  proud  defenders  of  a  tyrant's  throne, 
And  Joseph  hiring  carts,  to  move  his  home, 

Were  but  the  opening  wonders  of  your  youth." 

On  this,  the  horrid  scene  began, 
And  the  dread  tempest  fell  ; 


THE  BATTLE   OF  MARENGO.  125 

'T  was  then,  Marengo's  thunders  roar'd, 

Down  to  the  gates  of  hell ! 
For  three  long  hours,  the  flame,  the  roar, 
The  dying  screams,  the  streams  of  gore, 
Waited  on  death,  triumphing  o'er 

The  undecided  field. 

At  length  o'er  Austria's  Eagles  victory  hung, 
My  unsupported  legions  were  o'ercome— 
And  all  the  chance,  seem'd  now  from  France, 

Either  to  die,  or  yield. 
This  helpless  situation,  flow'd 

From  my  mistake  alone  ; 
For  when  I  bid  the  trumpets  sound, 

I  thought  Desaix  was  near ; 
When  Oh,  alas  !  almost  too  late  I  found, 
His  legions  lay  full  three  leagues  in  the  rear! 

Of  all  the  dreadful  hours  I've  seen, 

Pregnant  with  nations'  fates, 
The  muse  yet  never  witness'd  one. 

Like  that  she  now  relates  ? 
On  either  hand,  our  wings  were  turn'd  ; 

The  centre  only,  stood  ; 
Guarding  the  dread  defile,  which  roll'd 

With  rivulets  of  blood  ! 

Upon  the  right,  a  strange  tremendous  sound 
Was  heard,  like  thousands  in  despair  : 

Each,  in  a  panic  scream. 

Not  quite,  but  half,  by  tlumd'ring  cannons  drown 'd, 
It  died  away,  along  Bormida's  stream, 
Like  the  dire  wailings  of  the  unhappy  dead, 
A  sinking  down  to  worlds  unknown, 
With  terror,  and  with  dread  ! 

Had  Melas  one  decisive  charge 

Made  through  the  hollow  way, 


126  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Scarce  heaven  itself,  could  have  retriev'd 

The  fortunes  of  the  day. 
But  thinking  all  our  powers  were  join'd, 

Restrained  by  heaven  or  fear  ; 
He  sent  his  forces  three  miles  round, 

To  take  us  in  the  rear. 

Not  knowing,  all  that  stopp'd  his  progress  then 
Was  barely  just  six  thousand  weary  men  ! 

On  whom  for  fear,  lest  we  should  charge. 

He  made  his  cannon  roar — 
Vomiting  death  amongst  our  ranks, 

Till  down,  around  their  gasping  dead  ; 
Floated  the  Gaulic  gore  ! 

'T  was  in  this  dreadful  hour,  I  rose 

Above  my  former  fame  ; 

From  friends,  obtesting  heaven,  I  would  retire  ; 
I  broke,  and  brav'd  the  whole  Austrian  fire, 

Across  the  bleeding  plain. 
From  rank  to  rank,  on  every  side  I  flew. 

Serenely  calm  ; — "  My  friends,"  I  cried. 

"  Desaix  is  just  in  view." 
The  bosom  of  the  earth  was  tore 

Beneath  my  courser's  feet — 
Whole  platoons  dropp'd,  amidst  their  gore — 
The  shiver'd  trees,  in  fragments  fell  around, 
And  join'd  the  cumbrous  carnage  of  the  ground 
While  horrid  devastation  rag'd  along, 

And  ruin  seem'd  complete! 
At  length  like  showers,  to  sun-burnt  flowers. 

The  great  deliverers  came  ; 
Raging  they  broke,  through  fire  and  smoke, 

And  hillocks  of  the  slain  ! 

Transported  at  the  long  wished  aid, 
My  daring  plans  were  in  a  moment  laid. 


THE  BATTLE    OF  MAKENGO.  127 

The  troops,  I  in  a  solid  column  form'd  ; 
Rcsolv'd  to  send,  down  to  the  world  beneath, 
Thousands,  to  tell  the  Austrian  lines  were  storm'd, 
Or  Bonaparte  had  resign'd  his  breath  ! 
But  one  half  hour,  these  grand  arrangements  took ; 

During  which  time,  disgorging  flame, 
Red  globes,  and  death,  across  the  plain, 

One  hundred  cannons,  roar'd  amain  ; 

Till  heaven  and  earth  resounding  rung — 
With  the  dire  clamour  shook  ! 

At  length,  prepar'd,  the  bleeding  front, 

To  right  and  left  I  wheel'd  ; 
And  bade  the  column,  form'd  behind, 

Rush  thund'ring  to  the  field. 
The  horrid  pas  de  charge,  at  once  was  given, 
Its  tones  re-murmur'd  from  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 
While  like  tremendous  rolling  flames, 

By  raging  tempests  driven, 
The  column  in  a  torrent  pour'd 

On  the  Austrian  host  ; 
O'er  bellowing  cannons,  and  the  dead  ; 
O'er  those  that  fought,  and  those  that  fled  ; 
Like  /Etna's  burning  lava  red, 
Roaring,  resistless,  down  it  spread  ; 

With  bayonets  plunging,  down  to  Pluto's  dreary  coasts 
Thousands,  who  are  now  wandering  there, 
Pale,  melancholy  ghosts! 

Thus  ended  this  tremendous  day 

Of  terrible  renown  ; 
'T  was  thus,  I  snatch'd  bright  victory's  prize, 

Perhaps,  the  Imperial  Crown. 
But  while  we  triumph,  tears  should  pour, 
For  brave  Desaix  is  none  : 


128  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

As  down  upon  the  foes  he  bore, 
Leading  the  van,  thund'ring  before, 
Fate  flew,  and  down  amidst  the  gore, 

He  fell  without  a  groan  ! 
Hem'd  round  with  glory,  lo  !  he  dies; 

And  worlds  must  do  the  same ! 
Even  then,  o'er  nature's  smoking  wreck, 
Deathless,  shall  live  the  grandeur  of  his  name, 
Borne  on  Marengo's  dreadful  sound 
To  everlasting  fame. 


TO  NAPOLEON. 

THE  immediate  result  of  the  victory  won  at  Marengo, 
was  an  armistice,  entered  into  between  Melas  and  Napo- 
leon, by  the  terms  of  which  all  Italy  was  to  be  given  by 
Austria  to  the  young  conqueror.  It  took  Moreau's  vic- 
tory at  Hohenlinden  to  bring  about,  finally,  this  desired 
result ;  but  Napoleon's  active  field  operations  ended  for 
that  campaign  at  Marengo,  and  he  returned  to  Paris — 
having  in  five  weeks,  with  an  army  one  half  the  si/e  of 
that  opposing  him,  accomplished  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful military  feats  of  his  truly  wonderful  career.  His  jour- 
ney to  Paris  was  a  continued  march  of  triumph.  "  Bon- 
fires, illuminations,  the  pealing  of  bells,  and  the  thunder 
of  artillery  accompanied  him  all  the  way."  At  Lyons, 
especially,  he  was  greeted  with  the  wildest  enthusiasm, 
and  at  a  breakfast  given  him  by  the  Prefect  of  that  city, 
the  following  verses,  composed  for  the  occasion,  were 
sung. 

TO    NAPOLEON*. 

M.   DKI.AMHNK. 

Warriors,  see  !  this  valued  guest, 
This  hero  through  the  world  confest. 
This  BONAPARTE,  by  all  ador'd, 
Consents  to  share  our  festive  board. 
With  laurel-wreaths  his  brow  be  bound, 


130  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

His  ardent  brow  with  glory  crown'd. 
Haste — the  first  of  victors  he, 
The  conqueror  of  victory. 

But  yesterday  he  claim'd  the  plain, 
To-day  the  arts  his  care  obtain  ; 
His  hand,  by  which  each  rampart  falls, 
Lyons,  rebuilds  thy  ruin'd  walls. 
With  laurel  wreaths,  etc. 

Of  Grecian  Hercules  no  more, 
Though  much  his  wonders  charm'd  of  yore  ; 
Lo !  France  presents,  in  modern  hours, 
A  Hercules  of  ampler  pow'rs. 

With  laurel  wreaths,  etc. 

Brave  was  Caesar,  brave  and  wise, 
With  equal  fire  our  hero  vies : 
"  See,  fight,  conquer,  friends  !  "  said  he  ; 
He  said,  and  Italy  was  free. 

With  laurel  wreaths,  etc. 

Long  for  our  progeny  may  heav'n 
Preserve  to  thee  the  being  giv'n  ! 
To  prosper  earth  thy  years  increase, 
And  grant,  at  least,  an  age  of  peace. 
With  laurel  wreaths,  etc. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  HOHENLINDEN. 

NAPOLEON  returned  to  Paris  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
of  July  2,  1800.  The  next  day,  as  soon  as  his  arrival 
became  known,  the  whole  city  turned  out  to  welcome  him. 
As  Hazlitt  well  puts  it  :  "  It  was  a  day,  like  which  few 
occur  in  history  ;  yet  in  this  instance  how  many  such  were 
crowded  into  the  life  of  a  single  man." 

The  period  of  the  armistice  having  expired  and  Austria 
having  refused  to  accept  its  terms,  the  French  armies 
were  again  set  in  motion.  Macdonald  crossed  the  Alps 
in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  achieved  brilliant  victories  for 
the  French  cause.  Moreau,  on  the  Rhine,  commenced 
that  memorable  winter  campaign,  which  ended  so  glori- 
ously at  the  terrible  battle  of  Hohenlinden.  At  midnight, 
on  the  third  of  December,  1800,  in  the  midst  of  a  raging 
snowstorm,  the  French  and  Austrian  armies  met.  The 
terrific  and  awful  combat  which  followed  has  been  immor- 
talised by  Campbell  in  the  poem  so  familiar  to  every 
schoolboy. 

THE    BATTLE    OF    IK  HIENLIN'DEN. 

THOMAS  c'.\Mi'i;i-i.i.. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 

131 


A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet  ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


iSoi. 

THE  victory  won  at  Hohenlinden  forced  the  treaty  of 
Luneville.  That  treaty  secured  to  France  peace  with  all 
the  world,  England  alone  excepted.  It  can  hardly  be 
said,  with  truth,  that  Napoleon  stood  in  the  way  of  a 
general  peace  at  that  time.  He  certainly  showed  by  word 
and  by  deed  that  he  wanted  no  more  war.  Master  of  the 
land,  as  England  was  mistress  of  the  sea,  he  expressed 
himself  as  willing  to  meet  his  great  and  powerful  enemy 
half  way  in  negotiations  for  peace  ;  but  further  he  would 
got  go. 

Wordsworth's  idea  of  the  man  was  wrong,  and  by 
his  standard  of  what  should  go  to  make  up  a  great 
ruler,  Napoleon  cannot  be  measured.  He  was  an  excep- 
tion to  all  rules.  The  times,  the  circumstances,  the  con- 
dition of  things  by  which  he  was  surrounded  left  him.  up 
to  this  time,  iSoi,  no  other  course  to  pursue  than  the  one 
he  followed.  For  the  mistakes  he  afterwards  made,  he 
could  not  then  be  judged.  Nor  should  it  be  taken  for 
granted  that  true  power  always  grows  upon  the  stalk 
named  by  Wordsworth.  The  lives  of  man}'  great  military 
men  who  have  been  called  upon  to  rule  over  nations, 
prove  the  contrary. 


134  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

1801. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

I  grieved  for  Bonaparte,  with  a  vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief!     The  tenderest  mood 
Of  that  man's  mind — what  can  it  be?  what  food 
Fed  his  first  hopes  ?  what  knowledge  could  he  gain 
'T  is  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we  train 
The  Governor  who  must  be  wise  and  good, 
And  temper  with  the  sternness  of  the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  meek  as  womanhood. 
Wisdom  doth  live  with  children  round  her  knees  : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the  talk 
Man  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the  hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind's  business  ;  these  are  the  degrees 
By  which  true  Sway  doth  mount  ;  this  is  the  stalk- 
True  Power  doth  grow  on  ;  and  her  rights  are  these. 


THE  STAR  OF  "THE  LEGION  OF  HONOUR." 

THE  only  peace  agreed  to  between  France  and  England 
during  the  Napoleonic  wars  was  that  known  as  the  "  Peace 
of  Amiens,"  which  lasted  from  March,  1802,  until  May, 
1803.  During  the  existence  of  that  peace  the  whole 
world,  as  it  were,  rushed  to  Paris,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  man  who  had  wrought  such  mighty  changes  in  so 
short  a  time.  The  obscure  -  Corsican  had  become  the 
greatest  man  of  the  times.  Emperor  of  France,  in  all 
but  name,  his  Court  began  to  take  on  all  the  trappings 
and  ceremonies  of  royalty.  Holding  the  reins  of  power 
absolutely  within  the  grasp  of  his  own  hands,  he  tolerated 
no  interference,  either  by  his  colleagues  or  by  the  people. 
In  peace,  as  in  war,  he  rested  not,  but  laboured  incessantly 
for  the  advancement  of  his  country,  whose  needs  he 
seemed  to  comprehend  fully.  Society  was  reorganised 
for  the  better  ;  judicial  reforms  were  perfected,  and  the 
Code  pushed  forward  towards  completion  ;  the  educa- 
tional system  of  the  nation  was  thoroughly  revised  and 
improved  ;  the  relations  between  church  and  state  were 
settled  by  the  signing  of  the  Concordat  in  the  spring  of 
1802  ;  the  finances  were  brought  up  to  a  flourishing  con- 
dition ;  magnificent  roads  and  bridges  were  built  ;  every- 
thing, in  fact,  that  could  enhance  the  greatness  and  glory 
of  France,  was  thought  of  and  carried  out  by  tin's  tireless 

135 


136  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

mind.  It  was  at  this  time  the  Legion  of  Honour  was 
established.  How  many  a  gallant  soldier  rushed  to  his 
death  in  hopes  of  winning  a  place  in  that  legion,  and  how 
many  a  dying  hero  was  made  happy  by  being  presented 
with  its  badge  before  he  answered  the  last  roll-call.  When 
the  *'  Star  "  no  longer  led  the  Legion  on  to  victory,  Byron 
gave  us  the  following  lines. 

ON    THE    STAR    OF    "  THE    LEGION   OF    HONOUR." 

LORD  HYKON. 

Star  of  the  brave  ! — whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit ! 

Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  births, 

Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ! 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze  ; 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here  : 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes, 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roll'd  thy  stream  of  blood, 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood  ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space  ; 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

^  Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew. 
A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 


THE   STAR    OF  "THE   LEGION  OF  HONOUR"        137 

Of  three  bright  colours,  each  divine, 
And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 
For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them 
Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes  ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes  ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light  : 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail  ! 
But,  O  Thou  Rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
\Yhen  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array  ; 
And  soon.  ()  Goddess  !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  ! 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

IN  December,  1801,  Napoleon  fitted  out  a  large  expedi- 
tion and  sent  it  to  St.  Domingo,  with  General  Le  Clerc, 
his  brother-in-law,  in  command.  Le  Clerc  succeeded  in 
the  task  assigned  him,  so  far,  at  least,  as  to  capture  Tous- 
saint  L'Ouverture,  the  leader  of  the  negroes,  and  send 
him  a  prisoner  to  France,  where  he  was  confined  in  prison 
at  Besancon  and  died  there  in  April,  1803.  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture  was  a  man  far  superior  in  intellect  and  states- 
manship to  his  fellow-countrymen.  Whether  he  was 
honest  in  his  dealings  with  Napoleon,  whether  his  course 
in  throwing  off  his  dependence  on  France  and  setting  him- 
self up  as  the  sole  head  of  the  St.  Domingo  government 
was  the  act  of  a  true  patriot,  and  whether  Napoleon's 
treatment  of  him  was  cruel  and  inhuman,  are  questions 
not  to  be  decided  here.  It  certainly  cost  France  much 
precious  blood  and  an  immense  amount  of  money  to  sub- 
jugate the  blacks.  General  Le  Clerc  and  twenty  thousand 
French  soldiers  lost  their  lives,  and  in  the  end  England 
took  the  fruits  of  the  whole  expedition.  Napoleon  at  St. 
Helena  said  that  one  of  the  greatest  follies  he  ever  com- 
mitted was  sending  an  army  to  St.  Domingo  ;  that  he  did 
it  against  his  own  judgment  and  solely  because  the  nation 
demanded  it. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  139 

TOUSSAIXT  L'OUVERTURK. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  \YHITTIER. 
Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besangon's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien  !  for  the  time  shall  come — 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  colour's  infamy; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  colour,  time,  or  clime, — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm, — 
Whose  steps  on  human  hearts  fell  firm  ; — 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,-- 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm. 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, — 
Proofs  that  the  negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,— 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE   CONSUL,  BONAPARTE. 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  that  Napoleon  loved  not  the 
English  people?  How  such  an  educated  and  enlightened 
nation  could,  even  technically,  permit  the  publication  of 
such  verses  as  the  following  is  not  easy  to  understand. 
The  defence  of  not  interfering  with  the  liberty  of  the 
press,  is  too  frivolous  to  be  entertained.  If  the  case  had 
been  reversed  and  it  had  been  their  good  King  George 
III.  and  his  family  who  were  being  slandered  and  lam- 
pooned, how  quickly  England  would  have  been  up  in 
arms.  But  nothing  was  too  false  or  too  vile,  if  directed 
against  the  "  wicked  usurper."  Conspirators  and  royalist 
emigrants  were  harboured  and  allowed  to  plot  murder,  and 
to  publish  Munchausen  lies,  within  the  confines  of  English 
territory.  English  gold  was  ever  ready  to  help  any  cause 
which  might  tend  to  overthrow  the  French  Republic  and 
restore  the  Bourbons  to  the  throne.  Even  those  in 
England  who,  at  the  ratification  of  the  Peace  of  Amiens. 
sided  with  the  First  Consul  and  were  disposed  to  recog- 
nise him  as  the  legally  chosen  ruler  of  the  French  nation, 
and  to  live  at  peace  with  him,  were  converted  to  the 
other  side  and  were  soon  found  bitterly  opposing  him. 


THE  CONSUL,  BOXAPARTE.  14! 

THE  BIRTH,  PARENTAGE,  AND  EDUCATION,  LIKE, 

CHARACTER,  AND  BEHAVIOUR  OF  THE 

CONSUL,  BONAPARTE. 

A    TALE    FOR    JOHN    BULL. 

(  To  the  Tune  of  Good  Quivn  fists.) 

ANON. 

I  '11  tell  you   such  a  story  now  as   never  has  been  told, 

John, 

By  modern  novel-writers,  or  by  fabulists  of  old,  John. 
And  what  is  wonderful  in  these  romancing  times,  John, 
You  '11    find    as    much    of    truth,    as    of    wonder   in    my 
rhymes,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  clays  of  Tyrant  Bonaparte, 
Cursed  be  the  memory  of  Tyrant  Bonaparte. 

In  the  middle  of  that  sea,  where  Nelson  spread  your  fame, 

John, 
A  little  island  shows  its  head,  and  Corsica  's  its  name, 

John, 
Where  a  pettifogging  Lawyer  and  a  vixen  of  a  \Yife, 

John, 
Contriv'd  by  hook  or  crook  to  bring  an  urchin  into  life, 

John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

Oh,  curs'd    forever   be   the    night,   with   curses  deep  and 

hearty, 

When  this  urchin  saw  the  light,  this  Devil  Bonaparte  ! 
Lawyers,  as  you   know,  are  ever  mischief  brooding  o'er, 

John, 
But  mischief  such  as  this,  never  Lawyer  hatch'd  before, 

John. 

Oh  !   the  melancholy  days,  etc. 


142  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Young  Boney  soon  was  sent  to  France,  and  got  his  edu- 
cation, 

At  a  free  school  which  the  good  old   King  had   founded 
for  the  nation, 

For  which  to  show  his  gratitude,  he  kindly  did  contrive, 
John, 

To   help  the   rascal,   Robespierre,  to  take   away  his  life, 
John. 

Oh  !   the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

At    Toulon    next    he    chanc'd    to    meet    a   villain    called 

Barras,  John, 
Who  seas  had  shed  of  human  blood,  and  wish'd  to  shed 

still  more,  John. 

Young  Boney  was  as  covetous  of  murder  to  the  full,  John, 
And    got    by   way   of    recompense,   his    master's    cast-off 

Trull,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

So  hand  in  hand  to  Paris  went  these  Spoilers  of  Creation, 

And  every  place  with   murder  fill'd,  and   endless  desola- 
tion. 

By  grape-shot   from  the  cannon's  mouth  in  one  devoted 
day,  John, 

All  weltering  in   their  own   heart's  blood,  two  thousand 
bodies  lay,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

To  Italy  he  now  repair'd  as  General-in-Chief,  John, 

And     murders    there    committed    such    as    almost    pass 
belief,  John. 

Where'er  he  set  his  cloven   foot,  the   marks  of  blood  ap- 
pear, John, 

Destruction    went    before    his    face,   and    curses    in    his 
rear,  John. 

Oh  !   the  melancholy  days,  etc. 


THE   CONSUL,    BONAPAKTE.  143 

And  next  to  Egypt's  coasts  he  led  his  rapine  fatted  train, 

John, 
And  with  depopulation   wild  he  fill'd    each  fertile  plain, 

John, 
And  quick   through  Alexandria  which  he  had    ta'en  by 

storm,  John, 
Murder,     rapes,     and    pillage    stalk'd    in    ev'ry  frightful 

form,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

Old  Nile  drew  back  his  hoary  head  and  in  dread  horror 

stood,  John, 
But    Carnage   soon    filled    up    his    bed    with    streams  of 

human  blood,  John, 
The  crocodiles  were  choaked  with  gore,  and  soon   it  did 

appear,  John, 
No    monster   could  in    thirst  of    blood    with    Bonaparte 

compare,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

But  Oh  !   what  tongue  can  justly  paint  the  horrors  of  that 

clay,  John, 
When   Jaffa's    sons  all    prisoners  before  his    forces    lay, 

John, 
1 1  is  troops  around  the  captives  drawn  had  orders  giv'n  to 

fire,  John. 
While    spying    through    a    glass    he    grinn'd    to  see  the 

Turks  expire,  John. 

Oh  !   the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

But  not  content   Five  Thousand   Foes  to   murder  in  cold 

blood,  John, 
His  own    troops   next    were   sacrificed    to   his  ensanguin'd 

mood,  John. 


144  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Near  twice  three  hundred  soldiers  who  were  wounded  by 

his  side,  John, 
Were    serv'd     with    draughts   of    opium,    and     agonised 

died,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

With  conquest  proud  'fore  Acre  next,  he  muster'd  all  his 

force,  John, 
But   soon  was  by  Sir  Sidney  Smith  compelled  to  change 

his  course,  John  ; 
A  handful  of  your  soldiers  there  defeated  all   his   host, 

John, 
And    forced  the    vengeful  murderer    to  skulk    from   off 

the  coast,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 

Then  sneaking  back  to  France  again  he  seiz'd  the  sword 

of  state,  John, 
And  slavery   has    now  become  the  Frenchman's   darling 

fate,  John. 
And  well  it  were  if  France  alone  composed  the  slavish 

train,  John, 
But  ah!  the  Dutch,  Italians,  Swiss,  all  groan  beneath  his 

chain,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  clays,  etc. 

And  now  he  swears  your  valiant  sons  he  '11  shortly  acid  to 

these,  John, 
And    make    the    boldest,    mere}'     ask,   upon    his    bended 

knees,  John, 
And  humbly  praise  his  clemency,  and  prostrate  sue   for 

grace,  John, 
While  wife  and  daughters  ravish'd  are  before  his  tortur'd 

face,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholv  davs,  etc. 


THE  CONSUL,    BOXAPARTK.  145 

But   never  sure  could   you    survive   such  aggravated   ill, 

John, 
Nor   bear   to   see   your  females  yield  to  his  accursed  will, 

John. 
Then  quick  prepare  with  ardent  zeal  to  meet  him  on  the 

Strand,  John, 
And   make  each    Frenchman's  grave  the  spot    on   which 

he  dares  to  land,  John. 

Oh  !  the  melancholy  days,  etc. 


NAPOLEON'S  CONFERENCE. 

THE  Peace  of  Amiens  was  of  short  duration.  It  was, 
at  best,  a  mere  truce,  brought  about  in  order  to  afford  a 
breathing  spell  to  two  mighty  nations,  tired  and  worn  out 
by  long  years  of  continued  warfare.  England  never  in- 
tended to  abide  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty.  She  fretted 
and  fumed  with  petit  jealousy  under  the  knowledge  of 
the  gigantic  strides  being  made  by  the  hated  "  Corsican." 
As  said  by  an  impartial  English  historian:  "  During  the 
short  interval  of  peace,  every  mode  of  irritation,  recrimina- 
tion, and  invective  was  industriously  resorted  to  and 
tacitly  encouraged  by  the  English  government,  in  hopes 
of  bringing  about  a  rupture."  Napoleon,  it  would  seem, 
desired  peace.  As  he  himself  said,  he  had  nothing  to 
gain  by  a  war  with  England.  He  was  First  Consul  for 
life  ;  elected  by  a  majority  of  over  three  million  votes  and 
he  was  the  absolute  ruler  of  France,  with  the  right  to 
name  his  successor  at  his  death.  He  was  ambitious  to 
place  France  at  the  head  of  the  nations  of  Continental 
Europe,  and  a  war  with  England  would  surely  embarrass 
him  in  the  carrying  out  of  his  scheme.  He  negotiated  in 
hopes  of  inducing  England  to  fulfil  the  terms  and  con- 
ditions of  the  treaty,  on  her  part,  but  all  in  vain.  On 
the  eighteenth  of  May,  1803,  England  declared  war. 

The  following  lines  purport  to  be  an  account  of  the 

146 


NAPOLEON'S   CONFERENCE.  147 

famous  interview  which  took  place  between  Napoleon  and 
the  English  Ambassador,  Lord  Whitworth,  shortly  before 
war  was  declared.  It  was  published  in  England  at  the 
time,  and  fairly  represents  the  English  version  of  the 
conference.  Hazlitt  stamps  the  story  as  a  fable  and  a 
caricature,  and  asserts  that  the  interview  in  question 
was  carried  out  by  Napoleon  in  a  dignified  and  courteous 
manner. 

NAPOLEON'S  CONFERENCE. 

ANON. 
Napoleon,  tho'  a  pigmy  sprite, 

Was  freakish  as  a  mule  ; 
Th'  ambassador  was  twice  as  stout, 

And  more  than  twice  as  cool. 

With  this  great  little  man  to  talk, 
He  came  from  fair  Whitehall; 

But  word  he  put  to  none,  for  why  ? 
The  little  man  talk'd  all. 

"  The  wind  is  west,"  the  Consul  cried. 

And  fierce  as  flame  he  grew  ; 
"  That  cursed  wind  ne'er  blew  me  good, 

And  now  it  blows  me  you. 

"  Tell  your  friend  Addington,  from  me, 

If  he  's  a  man  of  Peace, 
To  clap  a  muzzle  on  the  Press, 

And  stop  his  cackling  geese. 

"  Kick  out  my  rascal  renegades  ; 

Then  let  them  starve   and  rot; 
For  your  John  Bull,  if  he  must  roar. 

Let  him  ;    I  heed  him  not. 


148  A    METRICAL   J/ISTOA'Y   OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  And  where  is  Malta  ?     By  my  soul, 
I  hold  that  place  so  dear, 

Were  I  to  choose  'tvvixt  this  and  that, 
I  'd  sooner  see  you  here. 

"  Turn  to  your  Treaty  !  —  Here  it  is  — 
To  section  number  ten  :  — 

If  rightly  you  have  conn'd  it  not, 
Here,  con  it  o'er  again  ! 

"  Hell  and  damnation  !  am  I  fobb'd 

Of  this,  and  Egypt  too  ? 
What  says  your  Minister  to  that? 

Let  's  hear  it  ;  —  what  say  you  ?  " 

Now  reason  good  there  is  to  think, 
His  Lordship  here  had  spoke, 

If  this  loud  little  man  his  thread 
Of  reason  had  not  broke. 


t  !  "  he  cried,  ''  I  could  have  seiz'd, 
That  curst  ill-omen'd  shore  ; 
With  five  and  twenty  thousand  men, 
Though  you  were  there  writh  four. 

"  But  Egypt  soon  or  late  is  mine  ; 

So  take  a  Prophet's  word, 
And  Nile  thro'  all  his  sev'n  wide  mouths, 

Shall  hail  me  for  his  Lord. 

"  Sebastiani  scour'd  the  coast, 

And  well  I  chose  my  man  ; 
For  sure,  if  any  can  ride  post, 

Sebastiani  can. 


NAPOLEON'S  CONFERENCE.  149 

''If  soon  the  Turkish  Empire  falls, 

My  portion  shall  be  this  ; 
If  still  it  totters,  I  '11  arrange 

With  Sultan  as  with  Swiss. 

"  What,  tho'  a  Mussulman  I  was, 

While  interest  was  in  view; 
When  I  have  made  the  bargain  sure, 

I  '11  let  him  call  me  Jew. 

"  And  now  you  know  my  plan,  submit  ! 

Secrets  of  State  I  scorn  ; 
Strike,  or  expect  me  on  your  shores, 

As  sure  as  you  were  born. 

"  One  hundred,  though  it  be  to  one 

The  odds  alarm  not  me  ; 
What  were  the  odds  that  little  I, 

Great  Lord  of  France  should  be  ! 

"  Tho'  army  after  army  sink, 

Yet  sink  or  swim  I  '11  do  it, 
Of  their  pil'd  bodies  make  a  bridge, 

And  then  march  o'er  on  foot. 

"  They  're  not  my  countrymen,  but  slaves, 

Whose  blood  I  freely  spill  ; 
They  're  used  to  slaughter—  and  if  you 

Don't  kill  them  off  I  will." 

This  said,  his  little  fist  he  clench'cl, 

And  smote  the  board  full  sore  — 
"Hum!"   cried  my  Lord,  then  strode  away. 

And  word  spake  never  more! 


A  NEW  SONG  OF  OLD  SAYINGS. 

BEFORE  she  published  her  formal  declaration  of  war, 
England  seized  all  the  French  vessels  in  her  ports  and 
captured  all  she  could  find  on  the  high  seas.  Napoleon, 
in  answer  to  this  unwarranted  act,  forcibly  detained  all 
the  English  subjects  found  within  the  borders  of  France, 
and  treated  them  as  prisoners  of  war.  Both  these  acts 
were  without  the  rules  of  civilised  international  warfare, 
and  they  only  went  to  prove  the  bitter  hatred  which 
existed  between  these  two  powerful  nations  ;  which, 
united  in  peace,  might  have  ruled  the  destinies  of  the 
world.  France  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  war  ;  her 
navy  was  scattered  ;  her  army  disbanded  ;  but  such  was 
the  energy  of  the  First  Consul  that  within  ten  days  after 
the  declaration  of  war  had  been  announced,  he  had  in- 
vaded and  taken  possession  of  Hanover,  one  of  the 
European  possessions  of  the  King  of  England.  1  le  then 
began  to  work  out  his  scheme  for  the  invasion  of  Eng- 
land, which  was  one  of  the  most  gigantic  ever  undertaken 
by  him.  It  seems  almost  beyond  belief  that  one  man 
could  possess  the  power  and  the  ability  to  do  what  Na- 
poleon did  in  his  preparation  for  crossing  the  channel  and 
attacking  England  upon  her  own  soil.  His  plan  failed, 
simply  because  of  its  immensity.  During  the  two  years 
of  the  threatened  invasion,  England  at  first  ridiculed  the 


A    NEW  SONG  OF  OLD   SAVINGS.  151 

idea  ;  then,  as  the  strength  and  vastness  of  the  under- 
taking dawned  upon  her,  she  became  alarmed.  Her 
scribblers  and  would-be  poets  filled  the  press  with  their 
vile  and  foolish  rhymes.  From  this  mass  of  rubbish  we 
have  selected  two  examples,  which  will  illustrate  the 
spirit  pervading  England  at  that  time.  They  were  pub- 
lished anonymously,  as  such  libels  and  slanders  always 
are. 

A  NEW  SONG  OF  OLD  SAVINGS. 

ANON. 

Bonaparte,  the  bull}-,  resolv'd  to  come  over, 

With  flat-bottom'd  wherries,  from  Calais  to  Dover  : 

No  perils  to  him  in  the  billows  are  found, 

"  For  if  born  to  be  hang'd  he  can  never  be  drown'd." 

From  a  Corsican  dunghill  this  fungus  did  spring, 
He  was  soon  made  a  Captain  and  would  be  a  King  ; 
Hut  the  higher  he  rises  the  more  he  does  evil, 

"  For  a  Beggar  on  Horseback  will  ride  to  the  Devil." 

To  seize  all  that  we  have  and  then  clap  us  in  jail, 
To  devour  all  our  victuals  and  drink  all  our  ale, 
And  to  grind  us  to  dust  is  the  Corsican's  will— 

"  For  we  know  all  is  grist  that  e'er  comes  to  his  mill.' 

To  stay  quiet  at  home  the  First  Consul  can't  bear, 
Or  mayhap  he  would  have  other  fish  to  fry  there  ; 
So  as  fish  of  that  sort  does  not  suit  his  desire, 
"  He  leaps  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fin.-." 

He  builds  barges  and  cock-boats,  and  crafts  without  end, 
And  numbers  the  boats  which  to  England  In-  '11  send. 
But  in  spite  of  his  crafts  and   his  barges  and  boats, 
•'  He  still  reckons.  I  think,  without  one  of  his  hosts." 


152  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  rides  upon  France  and  he  tramples  on  Spain, 
And  holds  Holland  and  Italy  tight  in  a  chain, 
These  he  hazards  for  more,  though  I  can't  understand 
"  How  one  bird  in  the  bush  is  worth  two  in  the  hand." 

He  trusts  that  his  luck  will  all  danger  expel, 

''  But  the  pitcher  is  broke  that  goes  oft  to  the  well  "  ; 

And  when  our  brave  soldiers  this  bully  surround, 

•'  Though  he  's  thought  Penny-wise,  he  '11  look  foolish 
in  Pound." 

France  can  never  forget  that  our  fathers  of  yore, 
Used  to  pepper  and  baste  her  at  sea  and  at  shore  ; 
And  we  '11  speedily  prove  to  this  Mock-Alexander, 

"  What  was  sauce  for  the  goose,  will  be  sauce  for  the 
gander." 

I  have  heard  and  have  read  in  a  great  many  books, 
Half  the  Frenchmen  are  tailors,  and  t'  other  half  cooks  ; — 
We  Ve  fine   trimmings   in   store  for  the  Knights  of  the 

Cloth, 
"  And  the  Cooks  that  come  here  will  but  spoil  their 

own  broth." 

It  is  said  that  the  French  are  a  numerous  race, 
And  perhaps  it  is  true,  "  for  ill  weeds  grow  a-pace  "  ; 
Hut  come  when  they  will,  and  as  many  as  dare, 
"  1  expect  they  '11  arrive  a  day  after  the  fair." 

To  invade  us  more  safely  these  warriors  boast 
They  will  wait  till  a  storm  drives  our  fleet  from  the  coast. 
That  't  will  be  an  "  ill  wind,"  will  be  soon  understood, 
"  For   a   wind    that    blows    Frenchmen    blows    nobody 
erood." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HUMBUG.  153 

They   would   treat    Britain   worse   than   they  Vc   treated 

Mynheer, 
But   they  '11   find,   "  they  Ye  got  the  wrong  sow  by  the 

ear  " ; 

Let  them  come  then  in  swarms  by  this  Corsican  led, 
And  I  warrant,  "  we  "11  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head." 


THE  HISTORY  OK   HUMBUG. 

ANON. 

In  ages  long  past,  when  Humbug  was  a  trade, 
You  have  heard  of  a  thing  which  they  called  Gasconade  ! 
'T  was  a  neat  way  of  saying  just  what  was  not  true, 
And  threatening  grand  things  which  we  never  could  do. 

The  word  it  was  French,  and  it  suited  the  nation, 
Who  have  always  been  prone  to — enlargification  : 
Drawcansir  came  next,  in  his  science  well  skill'd, 
Who  killed  all  he  saw,  and  then  ate  all  he  kill'd. 

But    these    Braggarts    of    old,    who    once    fill'd    us    with 

wonder, 

Must  hide  their  small  heads  and  be  glad  to  knock  under; 
The  true  Braggadocia  has  now  got  the  start— 
And  they  call  this  grand  hero — Don  Puff,  Bonaparte. 

With  a  heart  made  of  stone,  and  with  feelings  of  lead, 
In  statue  four  feet,  and  with  eyes  sunk  in  his  head  ; 
All  feather  and  sash,  this  immense  Cockitoo, 
How  he  struts  and  how  threatens,  "  what  things  he  will 
do." 


154  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  swears  his  French  nation  will  soon  be  afloat, 
That  he  '11  beat  our  whole  Fleet  with  his  little  cock-boat : 
While  the  winds  and  the  waves  must  all  bow  to  his  nod, 
And  with  reverence  look  up  to  this  little  French  god. 

Our  sailors  subdued,  his  Flotilla  comes  over, 
And  the  Consular  Guard  take  their  breakfasts  at  Dover  ; 
While  Don   Puff  in  his  seven-leagued  boots  ere  't  is  sun- 
down, 
Rides  forward  and  takes  his  headquarters  in  London. 

There  seated — he  gives  us  dull  English  a  schooling, 
And  relieves  our  poor  King  from  the  trouble  of  ruling, 
While  his  army  so  gay,  as  their  custom  and  their  trade  is, 
"  Pour  passer  le  temps"  are  amusing  the  ladies. 

To  all  this  fine  boasting  (with  God  our  reliance) 

"  The  tight  little  Island  "  returns  its  defiance  ; 

And    from    Johnny    Groat's    house    to    Penzance    is    the 

pray'r — 
Let  this  Corsican  Ruffian  but  come — if  he  dare! 


THE  BARD'S  INCANTATION. 

SCOTT  treated  the  subject  of  the  impending  invasion  in 
a  far  different  manner.  He  saw  nothing  to  ridicule  or 
caricature  in  the  man  who  ruled  France.  lie  saw  the 
danger  which  threatened  his  own  country,  and,  in  a 
legitimate  way,  he  endeavoured  to  arouse  his  fellow- 
countrymen  to  a  proper  sense  of  that  danger.  There 
were  other  English  writers,  like  Wordsworth  and  Camp- 
bell, who  were  willing  to  treat  Napoleon  as  a  foeman 
worthy  of  British  steel ;  but  the  great  majority  thought 
of  him  only  as  a  Corsican  pirate,  coming  over  to  burn, 
ravish,  and  destroy. 

THE  BARD'S  INCANTATION. 

(Written  under  the  threat  of  Invasion  in  the  Autumn  uf  1804.) 

SIR   WAI.TKR  S<  OIT. 

The  forest  of  Glenmore  is  drear, 

It  is  all  of  black  pine  and  the  dark  oak  tree  ; 
And  the  midnight  wind,  to  the  mountain  deer. 

Is  whistling  the  forest  lullaby  : 
The  moon  looks  through  the  drifting  storm, 
But  the  troubled  lake  reflects  not  her  form, 
For  the  waves  roll  whitening  to  the  land, 
And  dash  against  the  shelvv  strand. 


156  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

There  is  a  voice  among  the  trees, 

That  mingles  with  the  groaning  oak — 

That  mingles  with  the  stormy  breeze. 

And  the  lake-waves  dashing  against  the  rock ; — 

There  is  a  voice  within  the  wood, 

The  voice  of  the  bard  in  fitful  mood  ; 

His  song  was  louder  than  the  blast, 

As  the  bard  of  Glenmore  through  the  forest  past. 

"  Wake  ye  from  your  sleep  of  death, 
Minstrels  and  bards  of  other  days ! 
For  the  midnight  wind  is  on  the  heath, 

And  the  midnight  meteors  dimly  blaze: 
The  Spectre  with  his  Bloody  Hand, 
Is  wandering  through  the  wild  woodland  ; 
The  owl  and  the  raven  are  mute  for  dread, 
And  the  time  is  meet  to  awake  the  dead  ! 

"  Souls  of  the  mighty,  wake  and  say, 
To  what  high  strain  your  harps  were  strung, 

When  Lochlin  plow'd  her  billowy  way, 
And  on  your  shores  her  Norsemen  flung  ? 

Her  Norsemen  train'd  to  spoil  and  blood, 

Skill'd  to  prepare  the  raven's  food, 

All,  by  your  harpings,  doom'd  to  die 

On  bloody  Largs  and  Loncarty. 

"  Mute  are  ye  all?     No  murmurs  strange 

Upon  the  midnight  breeze  sail  by  ; 
Nor  through  the  pines,  with  whistling  change 

Mimic  the  harp's  wild  harmony  ! 
Mute  are  ye  now? — Ye  ne'er  were  mute 
When  Murder  with  his  bloody  foot, 
And  Rapine  with  his  iron  hand, 
Were  hoveriner  near  von  mountain  strand. 


777 E   BAUD'S  1NCAXTATIOX.  157 

"  Oh,  yet  awake  the  strain  to  tell 

By  every  deed  in  song  cnroll'd, 
By  every  chief  who  fought  or  fell 

For  Albion's  weal  in  battle  bold  : — 
From  Coilgach,  first  who  roll'd  his  car 
Through  the  deep  ranks  of  Roman  war, 
To  him,  of  veteran  memory  dear, 
Who  victor  died  on  Aboukir. 

"  By  all  their  swords,  by  all  their  scars, 

By  all  their  names,  a  mighty  spell ! 
By  all  their  wounds,  by  all  their  wars. 

Arise,  the  mighty  strain  to  tell ! 
For  fiercer  than  fierce  Hengist's  strain, 
.More  impious  than  the  heathen  Dane, 
More  grasping  than  all-grasping  Rome. 
Gaul's  ravening  legions  hither  come!" 

The  wind  is  hush'd,  and  still  the  lake — 

Strange  murmurs  fill  my  tinkling  ears. 
Bristles  my  hair,  my  sinews  quake 

At  the  dread  voice  of  other  years — 
"  When  targets  clash'd,  and  bugles  rung. 
And  blades  round  warriors'  heads  were  flung, 
The  foremost  of  the  band  were  we. 
And  hymn'd  the  joys  of  Liberty  ! 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

THE  following  incident,  as  told  by  Campbell,  is,  in  sub- 
stance, historically  true,  and  it  illustrates  a  phase  in  the 
character  of  Napoleon,  which  many  times  found  expres- 
sion in  similar  acts  of  generosity  and  kindness.  Often, 
when  severity  would  have  been  justified  and  the  taking 
of  life,  even,  authorised,  he  listened  to  the  inner  voice, 
which  pleaded  for  mercy,  and  nobly  granted  pardon. 
How  illy  he  was  repaid  by  many  of  those  who  received 
favour  from  his  hands,  is  well  known.  The  English  tar 
was  one  of  the  few  who  appreciated  the  magnanimous 
trait  of  character  which  prompted  the  kindness  shown 
him. 

NAPOLEON    AND    THE    BRITISH    SAILOR. 

THOMAS  CAMPISI.I.I,. 

I  love  contemplating — apart 

From  all  his  homicidal,  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Napoleon's  glory  ! 

'T  was  when   his  banners  at   Boulogne, 
Armed   in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him — I   know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on   the  shore  to  roam  ; 
158 


XAPOLEOX  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR.  159 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On   England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 

Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over, 
With  envy  they  could  reach  the  white 

Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  his  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer. 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To   England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 
He  saw  one  morning  dreaming,  doting — 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating. 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave  and  wrought 

The  live-long  day  laborious  ;  lurking 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us!   't  was  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched,  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder  : 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled, 

No  sail— no  rudder. 

From  neighbouring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows. 

And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foam  in  tr  billows. 


l6o  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 
His  little  Argus  sorely  jeering; 

Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

\Yith  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 

And  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  : 

"  Rash  man,  that  would'st  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned, 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British   lass' 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad, 

''  But — absent  long  from  one  another—- 
Great was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"  And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
"Ye  've  both  my  favour  fairly  won  ; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 

lie  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  heart}', 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE    DUKE  D'ENGHIEN. 

WHILE  Napoleon  was  busy  with  his  preparations  for  a 
descent  upon  England,  a  vile  plot  was  being  hatched, 
which  had  for  its  object  his  assassination.  If  the  Eng- 
lish government  was  not  knowing  to  this  plot,  it  at  least 
made  no  effort  to  get  rid  of  its  head  and  front,  Georges 
Cadoudal  and  the  rest  of  his  gang  of  ruffians.  It  har- 
boured them  in  London  and  paid  them  money  for  past 
services  ;  it  sent  its  emissaries  to  all  parts  of  Europe  to 
help  on  the  cause  of  overthrowing  the  French  govern- 
ment;  it  encouraged  the  exiled  Bourbons  in  their  hope 
of  recovering  the  throne  of  France;  it  did  everything 
else  than  openly  participate  in  the  conspiracy.  The  plot 
was  discovered  ;  Moreau  banished  ;  Pichegru  dead  by 
his  own  hands ;  Cadoudal  and  a  few  others  executed ; 
most  of  the  guilty  ones  pardoned.  As  to  the  merits  of 
the  capture,  the  trial,  and  the  execution  of  the  Duke 
d'Enghien,  historians  do  not  agree.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  had  Napoleon  pardoned  this  prince  of 
royal  blood.  But  the  provocation  was  great  ;  some  defi- 
nite example  had  to  be  made  of  Napoleon's  power  to- 
crush  conspirators  and  assassins,  and  to  prove  that  he  was 
the  ruler  of  a  might}'  nation,  elected  by  an  almost  unani- 
mous vote  of  the  people.  The  lesson,  although  a  severe 
and  cruel  one,  seemed  necessary  under  the  existing  cir- 


1 62  A    METRICAL   IIIS7'OKY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

cumstances.  We  can  pity  the  fate  of  the  Duke  ;  so  we 
can  that  of  Major  Andre  ;  and  yet  Napoleon,  like  Wash- 
ington, had  a  duty  to  perform  towards  his  country  and  he 
performed  it.  I  do  not  think  history  quite  concurs  in  the 
verdict  expressed  below. 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   THE   DUKE    D'ENGHIEN. 

HENRY  KIRKI.  \VIIITE. 

What  means  yon  trampling?  what  that  light 

That  glimmers  in  the  inmost  wood  ; 
As  though  beneath  the  felon  night, 

o  o 

It  mark'd  some  deed  of  blood  ? 
Behold  yon  figures,  dim  descried 
In  dark  array  ;  they  speechless  glide. 
The  forest  moans  ;  the  raven's  scream 
Swells  slowly  o'er  the  moated  stream, 
As  from  the  castle's  topmost  tower, 

It  chants  its  boding  song  alone  : 
A  song,  that  at  this  awful  hour 

Bears  dismal  tidings  in  its  funeral  tone  ; 
Tidings,  that  in  some  grey  domestic's  ear 
Will  on  his  wakeful  bed  strike  deep  mysterious  fear. 

And,  hark,  that  loud  report !   't  is  done  ; 

There  's  murder  couch'd  in  yonder  gloom  ; 
'T  is  done,  't  is  done  !  the  prize  is  won. 

Another  rival  meets  his  doom. 
The  tyrant  smiles, — with  fell  delight 

He  dwells  upon  the 

The  tyrant  smiles  ;   from  terror  freed, 
Exulting  in  the  foul  misdeed, 
And  sternly  in  his  secret  breast 
Marks  out  the  victims  next  to  fall. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  THE  DUKE  D'1-.NGHEIN.        163 

His  purpose  fix'd  ;  their  moments  fly  no  more, 

He  points, — the  poniard  knows  its  own  ; 
Unseen  it  strikes, — unseen  they  die, 

Foul  midnight  only  hears,  and  shudders  at  the  groan. 
Hut  justice  yet  shall  lift  her  arm  on  high, 
And  Bourbon's  blood  no  more  ask  vengeance  from  the-  skv. 


OX  A  PICTURE  OF  NAPOLEON  IN   HIS  ROBES. 

THE  Duke  d'Enghicn  was  executed  on  the  twenty-first 
of  March,  1804,  and  on  the  eighteen  of  May,  following, 
Napoleon  was  proclaimed  Emperor  of  France.  The  one 
event  seemed  to  follow  the  other  as  a  natural  sequence. 
The  people  were  grateful  to  the  First  Consul  for  what 
he  had  done  for  them  ;  they  recognised  in  him  the 
only  person  able  to  govern  France  successfully,  and, 
above  all,  they  wanted  the  question  settled  as  to  who 
should  rule  the  nation,  Napoleon  being  dead.  The  con- 
spiracy, just  wiped  out,  had  brought  that  question  home 
to  them  in  all  its  seriousness.  Perhaps  one  of  these  plots 
might  end  the  life  of  their  beloved  ruler  before  he  could 
name  his  successor,  or,  perhaps,  the  successor  named 
would  not  be  acceptable  to  them.  The  establishment  of 
the  Empire  with  hereditary  succession  was  the  only 
solution  possible.  On  the  second  of  December,  1804, 
Napoleon  and  Josephine  were  crowned  at  Notre  Dame. 
Pope  Pius  VII.  had  come  from  Rome  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  He  did  all  else,  except  actual!}'  crown  the 
Emperor  and  Empress.  Napoleon  did  both  these  acts 
himself,  by  placing  the  crown,  first  upon  his  own  head  and 
then  upon  the  head  of  Josephine.  On  the  twenty-sixth  of 
May,  1805,  at  Milan,  Napoleon  crowned  himself  King  of 
Italy,  using  for  that  purpose  the  iron  crown  of  Charle- 
magne. 

164 


OJV  A    PICTURE    OF  NAPOI.F.OK   /A'  HIS  A'O/IAS.     165 

Thus,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  we  find  the  hero  of  Tou- 
lon ;  then  a  captain  of  artillery,  no\v  Emperor  of  France 
and  King  of  Italy.  Truly  a  wonderful  advance  in  twelve 
years,  for  the  son  of  an  unknown  Corsican  lawyer,  with 
no  other  aid  than  that  of  his  own  good  sword  and  mighty 
intellect.  Me  was  not  a  "  legitimate  "  in  the  sense  used 
in  the  following  verses,  but  the  kingly  robes  fitted  him  far 
better  than  they  did  many  born  in  the  purple  : 

OX    A    PICTURE    OF    NAPOLKOX    IN    HIS    KOI'.KS. 

ANON. 

I  frankly  own  that  gilded  state 

Improves  an  old  legitimate  ; 

That  in  "the  good  old  times"  the  kings 

Dressed  in  their  robes  were  pretty  things; 

For  glittering  crowns,  and  garments  flowing, 

Make  royal  faces  look  more  knowing; 

And  majesty  's  a  gorgeous  word, 

Though  sometimes  it  may  seem  absurd — 

For  sans  externals,  at  the  best 

'T  is  (with  due  reverence)  but  a  jest. 

Then  let  the  diamond's  lustre  try 
To  light  the  dull  unmeaning  eye  ; 
Let  crimson  folds  and  ermine  screen 
What  's  wisely  kept  from  being  seen  ; 
The\T  're  right — the  very  fools  and  knaves. 
Aye,  e'en  the  sycophants  and  slaves, 
(Although  't  would  not  be  quite  polite) 
Would  laugh  and  sneer  at  such  a  sight. 
Oh,  leave  then  this  caparisoned  state 
To  deck  the  idlv,  meanlv  Lireat  ; 


1 66  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Give  to  the  Spaniard  and  the  Moot- 
To  worship  Ferdinand's  tambour. 
To  Austria's  feeble  lord  impart 
Something  in  place  of  brains  and  heart. 
Let  suits  of  rich  brocade  bestow 
A  mantle  for  Italian  woe. 

But  it  would  take  up  too  much  time 
To  mention  all  these  kings  in  rhyme ; 
I  '11  just,  en  passant,  name  the  Czar, 
His  rude  Cossacks  and  gemmed  tiar ; 
A  sharper  deep,  who  keenly  rules 
The  councils  of  those  faithless  fools, 
Who  sets  rights,  justice  at  defiance, 
To  seal  the  most  Holy  Alliance  ! 

Ill-judging  painter  !  would'st  thou  bind 

Such  trappings  round  the  splendid  mind? 

Trust  me,  the  purple  ill  supplies 

Napoleon's  living  energies. 

Not  all  the  gems  of  Russia's  Czar 

Could  match  his  blazing  earth-born  star — 

Not  all  the  crowns  of  all  the  kings 

That  crouched  beneath  his  eagle's  wings — 

No,  though  they  burned  like  Afric's  sky, 

Were  worth  one  sparkle  of  his  eye  ! 

Paint  him  while  gazing  on  the  might 

Of  Egypt's  art,  before  the  fight — 

"  Soldiers,  from  those  high  pyramids 

Ages  contemplate  heroes'  deeds  !  " 

Or  paint  that  young  and  daring  chief 
Who  scaled  the  Alpine  snow-clad  reef, 
When  springing  on  the  giant  height 
He  pointed  to  the  valleys  bright, 


ON  A    PICTURE   OF  NAPOLEON  IN  HIS  XOBES.     1 67 

With  ardent  brow  and  flashing  eye, 

Exclaiming  "There  lies  Italy  !  " 

Dashing  along  the  dangerous  ice, 

Down  many  a  fearful  precipice, 

The  foremost  of  the  impetuous  brave, 

Who  rushed  to  glory  or  the  grave  : 

Or  he  who,  from  his  saddle-bow, 

Gave  laws  to  half  the  world  below — 

Paint  him  before  or  since  his  fall, 

Hero  or  captive — great  in  all. 

Let  the  proud  charger  paw  the  ground, 

He  brooks  not  to  be  harnessed  round 

With  trappings,  meeter  for  the  share 

Of  horses  at  a  country  fair, 

To  make  the  gaping  rabble  stare. 

I  'd  rather  see  that  flashing  eye, 

Like  his  own  eagle's,  soaring — high — 

Bending  its  piercing  glances  o'er 

Enraged  Paesiello's  score, 

See  his  capricious  fondness  tea/e 

The  lovely  child  upon  his  knees. 

Than  view  him  decked  in  purple  state, 

Like  some  poor  weak  legitimate  ! 

His  was  that  native  lofty  power 

That  sunk  not  at  affliction's  hour; 

He  left  the  world  a  name  behind, 

To  prove  the  mastery  of  mind  ; 

A  spirit  grief  could  not  enthral, 

Great  in  his  fortunes — greater  in  his  fall. 

The  captive  exile's  mighty  woes 

Have  stained  the  annals  of  his  foes. 

lie  fell — like  him  of  ancient  story, 

And  shook  the  pillars  of  their  glory  ; 

England!  when  reeled  thy  island  rock, 

All  Europe  felt  the  moral  shock. 


1 68  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  doubting  honour's  holiest  ties, 
Nations  looked  into  nations'  eyes. 
Though  conquests  hang  upon  thy  breath, 
Thy  banners  far  and  wide  unfurled, 
Can  they  restore  the  unsullied  faith, 
That  made  thee  conscience  of  the  world  ? ' 


ON  THE  RUMOUR  OF  A  WAR  WITH  AUSTRIA. 

THE  preparation  for  the  invasion  of  England  went  on, 
and  in  the  fall  of  1805  everything  was  ready  for  the  at- 
tempt. But  the  success  or  failure  of  Napoleon's  mightiest 
scheme  was  never  to  be  tested  by  an  actual  trial.  Through 
the  inability  of  Admiral  Villeneuve  to  carry  out  the  plan 
laid  down  for  him,  and  the  success  of  England  in  bringing 
about  a  new  coalition  of  the  European  nations  against 
France,  it  became  necessary  for  Napoleon  to  withdraw  his 
army  from  Boulogne  and  to  abandon  the  idea  of  conquer- 
ing England  on  her  own  shores.  The  rumour  of  an  ap- 
proaching war  with  Austria,  and  the  result  of  such  a  strife, 
was  told  at  the  time  by  an  obscure  writer  named  Richaud. 
who,  it  is  said,  presented  the  lines  to  Napoleon  before  his 
departure  for  headquarters. 

ON    THE    RUMOUR    OK    A    WAR    WITH    AUSTRIA. 

M.     RlCHAfn. 

Kings,  who  so  often  vanquished,  vainly  dare 
Menace  the  victor  that  has  laid  you  low,- 

Look  now  at  France, — and  view  your  own  despair 
In  the  majestic  splendour  of  your  foe. 

What  miserable  pride,  ye  foolish  kings, 
Still  your  deluded  reason  thus  misleads  ! 

Provoke  the  storm, — the  bolt  with   lightning  wings 
Shall  fall, — but  fall  on      our  devoted    heail>. 


A    METRICAL    HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  thou,  Napoleon,  if  thy  mighty  sword 
Shall  for  thy  people  conquer  new  renown  ; 

Go, — Europe  shall  attest,  thy  heart  preferr'd 
The  modest  olive  to  the  laurel  crown. 

But  thee,  lov'd  chief,  to  new  achievements  bold 
The  aroused  spirit  of  the  soldier  calls  ; 

Speak  !— and  Vienna  cowering  shall  behold 
Our  banners  waving  o'er  her  prostrate  walls. 


THE  GRENADIER'S  ADIEU  TO  THE  CAMP  AT 
BOULOGNE. 

THE  now  coalition  between  England,  Austria,  and  Rus- 
sia, was  first  known  to  Napoleon  when  he  heard  that  the 
Austrian  and  Russian  armies  were  actually  in  the  field 
advancing  rapidly  towards  the  frontiers  of  Erance.  No 
declaration  of  war  had  been  proclaimed.  His  enemies 
thought  to  catch  the  "  Little  Corporal  "  napping,  but  how 
fatal  their  mistake.  No  sooner  was  Napoleon  apprised  of 
what  was  going  on  than  the  camp  at  Boulogne  was  broken 
up  and  the  Grand  Army  was  sweeping  like  a  whirlwind 
over  Erance  and  towards  the  rear  of  the  Austrian  army. 

''  During  the  long  continuance  of  the  Erench  encamp- 
ment at  Boulogne,  the  troops  had  formed,  as  it  were,  a 
romantic  town  of  huts.  Every  hut  had  a  garden  sur- 
rounding it,  kept  in  neat  order,  and  stocked  with  vegetables 
and  flowers.  They  had,  besides,  fowls,  pigeons,  and  rab- 
bits ;  and  these,  with  a  cat  and  a  dog,  generally  formed 
the  little  household  of  every  soldier."  It  was  upon  the 
subject  of  the  departure  of  the  army  from  Boulogne  that 
a  length}'  poem  was  written,  by  a  combination  of  authors 
consisting  of  Barre,  Rodet,  and  Desfontaines.  The  fol- 
lowing is  the  only  translated  extract  from  the  poem  we 
have  been  able  to  find. 

171 


1/2         A  METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 
THE  GRENADIER'S  ADIEU  TO  THE  CAMP  AT  BOULOGNE. 

BAKRE,  RODKI,  and  DKSFONTAINES. 

The  drum  is  beating,  we  must  march. 

We  're  summon'd  to  another  field, 
A  field  that  to  our  conq'ring  swords 

Shall  soon  a  laurel  harvest  yield. 
If  English  folly  light  the  torch 

Of  war  in  Germany  again, — 
The  loss  is  theirs, — the  gain  is  ours, — 

March  !  march  !  commence  the  bright  campaign. 

There,  only  by  their  glorious  deeds 

Our  chiefs  and  gallant  bands  are  known  ; 
There,  often  have  they  met  their  foes, 

And  victory  was  all  their  own  : — 
There*  hostile  ranks,  at  our  approach, 

Prostrate  beneath  our  feet  shall  bow  ; 
There,  smiling  conquest  waits  to  twine 

A  laurel  wreath  round  every  brow. 

Adieu,  my  pretty  turf-built  hut  ! 

Adieu,  my  little  garden  too  ! 
I  made,  I  deck'd  you  all  myself, 

And  I  am  loth  to  part  with  you  ; 
But  since  my  arms  I  must  resume, 

And  leave  your  comforts  all  behind, 
Upon  the  hostile  frontier  soon 

My  tent  shall  flutter  in  the  wind. 

My  pretty  fowls  and  doves,  adieu  ! 

Adieu,  my  playful  cat,  to  thee  ! 
Who  every  morning  round  me  came, 

And  were  my  little  family. 


THE    GRENADIER'S  ADIEU  TO   THE    CAMP.  173 

But  thee,  my  dog,  I  shall  not  leave, — 

No,  thou  shalt  ever  follow  me, — 
Shalt  share  my  toils,  shalt  share  my  fame, 

For  thou  art  called   Victory. 

But  no  farewell  I  bid  to  you, 

Ye  praams,  and  boats,  who,  o'er  the  wave, 
Were  doom'd  to  waft  to  England's  shore 

Our  hero  chiefs,  our  soldiers  brave. 
To  you,  good  gentlemen  of  Thames, 

Soon,  soon  our  visit  shall  be  paid, 
Soon,  soon  your  merriment  be  o'er, — 

'T  is  but  a  few  short  hours  delayed. 


TRAFALGAR. 

TlIE  plans  formed  by  Napoleon  to  surprise  and  annihi- 
late the  Austrian  army  were,  in  every  detail,  successful. 
It  was  early  in  September,  1805,  that  the  French  army 
broke  camp  at  Boulogne,  and  on  the  twentieth  of  October, 
following,  General  Mack  surrendered  with  his  whole  army 
at  Ulm.  In  less  than  two  months  the  proud  Austrian 
army,  that  had  thought  to  catch  the  mighty  Emperor  off 
his  guard,  was  itself  caught  in  a  most  fatal  snare  and  com- 
pletely destroyed.  Over  fifty  thousand  prisoners  were 
taken  by  the  victors,  without  even  a  battle  of  any  moment 
being  fought,  and  with  a  total  loss  to  the  French  army  of 
less  than  twenty-five  hundred  men.  As  an  old  French 
Grenadier  remarked,  Napoleon  had  invented  a  new  art  of 
war  in  making  his  soldiers  win  victories  with  their  legs 
instead  of  with  their  bayonets. 

The  wonderful  success  of  Napoleon  in  this  most  re- 
markable campaign  was  considerably  dampened  by  the 
overwhelming  defeat  of  Admiral  Villeneuve  by  Lord 
Nelson  at  Trafalgar.  Had  the  naval  forces  of  France 
in  those  days  been  commanded  by  the  brains  which  led 
her  armies  on  from  victory  to  victory,  the  result  at  Trafal- 
gar might  have  been  different  and  the  descent  on  England 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  been  successfully  accom- 
plished. The  battle  of  Trafalgar  was  fought  on  tin- 

174 


LORD  NELSON. 
From  an  engraving  by  |.  Skelton,  after  A.  \V.  Uevis  118051 

London,  1849. 


TRAFALGAR.  175 

twenty-first  of  October,  1805.  The  death  of  Nelson 
made  the  victory  a  dear  one  for  England,  but  it  put 
an  end  to  any  further  attempt  at  invasion  on  the  part  of 
Napoleon.  An  interesting  account  of  the  death  of  Ville- 
neuve  is  given  by  O'Meara  in  what  purports  to  be  Napo- 
leon's story  of  how  the  Admiral  met  his  end.  O'Meara 
makes  Napoleon  say  :  "  Villeneuve,  afraid  of  being  tried 
by  court-martial  for  disobedience  of  orders,  for  I  had 
ordered  him  not  to  sail  or  to  engage  the  English,  deter- 
mined to  destroy  himself,  and  accordingly  took  his  plates 
of  the  heart  (he  had  been  studying  Anatomy  with  this 
purpose  in  view)  and  compared  them  with  his  breast.  Ex- 
actly on  the  centre  of  the  plate-,  he  made  a  mark  with  a 
large  pin,  then  fixed  the  pin  as  near  as  he  could  judge  in 
the  same  spot  in  his  own  breast,  shoved  it  in  to  the  head, 
penetrated  his  heart,  and  expired.  When  the  room  was 
opened  he  was  found  dead ;  the  pin  in  his  breast,  and 
a  mark  in  the  plate  corresponding  with  the  wound  in  his 
breast.  He  need  not  have  done  it,  as  he  was  a  brave 
man,  though  possessed  of  no  talent." 

TRAFALGAR. 

YVll.I.lA.M  (.'.    Hi  NN1-  I  1  . 

Northwest  the  wind  was  blowing 

Our  good  ships  running  free  ; 
Seven  leagues  lay  Cape  Trafalgar 

Away  upon  our  lee  ; 
'T  was  thru,  as  broke  the  morning. 

The  Frenchmen  we  descried, 
East  away,  there  they  lay, 

That  dav  that  Nelson  died. 


A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

That  was  a  sight  to  see,  boys, 

On  which  that  morning  shone  ; 
We  counted  three-and-thirty, 

Mounseer  and  stately  Don  ; 
And  plain  their  great  three-deckers 

Amongst  them  we  descried, — 
"  Safe,"  we  said,  "  for  Spithead," 

That  clay  that  Nelson  died. 

Then  Nelson  spoke  to  Hardy, 

Upon  his  face  the  smile, 
The  very  look  he  wore  when 

We  beat  them  at  the  Nile  ! 
"  \Ve  must  have  twenty,  Hardy," 

'T  was  thus  the  hero  cried  ; 
And  we  had  twenty,  lads, 

That  day  that  Nelson  died. 

Up  went  his  latest  signal  ; 

Ah,  well,  my  boys,  he  knew 
That  not  a  man  among  us 

But  would  his  duty  do  ! 
And  as  the  signal  flew,  boys, 

With  shouts  each  crew  replied  ; 
How  we  cheered  as  we  neared 

The  foe,  when  Nelson  died  ! 

We  led  the  weather  column, 

But  Collingwood,  ahead, 
A  mile  from  all,  the  lee  line 

Right  through  the  Frenchmen  led  ; 
"  And  what  would  Nelson  give  to 

Be  here  with  us  !  "   he  cried, 
As  he  bore  through  their  roar 

That  dav  that  Nelson  died. 


TRAFALGAR.  177 

Well,  on  the  Victory  stood,  boys. 

With  every  sail  full  spread  ; 
And  as  we  neared  them  slowly 

There  was  but  little  said. 
There  were  thoughts  of  home  amongst  us. 

And  as  their  line  we  eyed. 
Here  and  there,  perhaps,  a  prayer, 

That  day  that  Nelson  died. 

A  gun, —  the  Bncentanrc  first 

Began  with  us  the  game  ; 
Another, — then  their  broadsides 

From  all  sides  through  us  came  ; 
With  men  fast  falling  round  us, 

While  not  a  gun  replied, 
With  sails  rent,  on  we  went, 

That  day  that  Nelson  died. 

"  Steer  for  their  admiral's  flag,  boys  !  " 

But  where  it  flew  none  knew  ; 
"  Then  make  for  that  four-decker," 

Said  Nelson,  "  men,  she  '11  do  !  " 
So,  at  their  Trinidada, 

To  get  we  straightway  tried, 

o  o  ^ 

As  we  broke  through  their  smoke, 
That  day  that  Nelson  died. 

'T  was  where  they  clustered  thickest 

That  through  their  line  we  broke. 
And  to  their  Bnccntaitre  first 

Our  thundering  broadside  spoke. 
We  shaved  her  ; — as  our  shot,  boys, 

Crashed  through  her  shattered  side. 
She  could  feel  how  to  keel. 

That  dav  that  Nelson  died. 


1/8  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX, 

Into  the  Don's  four-decker 

Our  larboard  broadsides  pour. 
Though  all  we  well  could  spare  her 

Went  to  the  Bnccntaurc. 
Locked  to  another  Frenchman, 

Our  starboard  fire  we  plied, 
Gun  to  gun  till  we  won. 

That  day  that  Nelson  died. 

Redoubtable  they  call  her, — 

A  curse  upon  her  name! 
'T  was  from  her  tops  the  bullet 

That  killed  our  hero  came  ; 
As  from  the  deck,  with  Hardy, 

The  bloody  fight  he  eyed, 
And  could  hear  cheer  on  cheer, 

As  they  struck,  that  clay  he  died. 

41  The\-  Ye  done  for  me  at  last,  friend  !" 

'T  was  thus  the}-  heard  him  say, 
"  But  as  I  die  as  I  would  die,  boys, 

Upon  this  glorious  day  ; 
I  Ye  done  my  duty,  Hard}',' 

He  cried,  and  still  he  cried, — 
As  below,  sad  and  slow, 

We  bore  him  as  he  died. 

On  wounded  and  on  dying 

The  cockpit's  lamp  shone  dim  ; 
But  man}'  a  groan  we  heard,  lads, 

Less  for  themselves  than  him. 
And  man}-  a  one  among  them 

Had  given,  and  scarcely  sighed, 
A  limb   to  save  him 

Who  there  in  glory  died. 


TRAFALGAR.  179 

As  slowly  life  ebbed  from  him 

His  thoughts  were  still  the  same  : 
"  Ho\v  many  have  \ve  now,  boys  ?  " 

Still  faint  and  fainter  came. 
As  ship  on  ship  struck  to  us 

His  glazing  eyes  with  pride, 
As  it  seemed,  flashed  and  gleamed, 

As  he  knew  he  conquering  died. 

We  beat  them — how,  you  know,  boys, 

Yet  many  an  eye  was  dim  ; 
And  when  we  talked  of  triumph, 

We  only  thought  of  him. 
And  still,  though  fifty  years,  boys. 

Have  gone,  who,  without  pride, 
Names  his  name.— tells  his  fame, 

Who  at  Trafalgar  died  ! 


BEFORE  AUSTERLITZ. 

Ox  the  thirteenth  of  November,  1805,  Napoleon  en- 
tered Vienna,  and  from  there  set  out,  at  once,  upon  that 
other  campaign,  which  was  to  end  so  gloriously  for  him 
at  Austerlitz.  With  Austria  and  Russia  in  the  field 
against  him,  with  a  combined  force  greatly  outnumbering 
his  own  ;  with  Prussia  ready  at  the  news  of  his  first  de- 
feat to  put  two  hundred  thousand  soldiers  in  his  rear, 
cutting  off  his  retreat  and  leaving  him  hundreds  of  leagues 
from  his  own  capital ;  with  England  sending  her  money 
and  her  men  to  aid  in  crushing  him,  Napoleon  was  at  this 
time  in  a  very  critical  position.  But  his  enemies  again 
made  the  fatal  mistake  of  thinking  they  could  catch  him 
asleep,  and  dearly  did  they  pay  for  their  blunder.  On  the 
evening  of  the  first  of  December,  as  he  looked  over  the  field 
of  Austerlitz  and  took  in  at  a  glance  the  plan  of  the  Rus- 
sians, he  confidently  said:  "To-morrow  before  nightfall 
that  army  shall  be  my  own."  On  the  morning  of  the 
second  of  December,  1805,  the  "  Sun  of  Austerlitz  "  arose, 
and  before  it  went  clown  Napoleon  had  proven  the  truth 
of  his  words  of  the  night  before.  It  was  the  first  anni- 
versary of  his  coronation,  and  he  celebrated  it  by  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  victories  of  his  whole  military  career. 
Austria  went  down  at  Ulm,  and  Austerlitz  forced  Russia 
to  the  wall.  The  coalition  was  destroyed  and  peace  was 
once  more  in  sight. 

i  So 


BEFORE  AUSTERL1TZ.  l8l 

BEFORE  AUSTEKLITZ. 

\\'ALTKR  THORNBVRY. 

December  dawn — through  frosty  fogs 

The  sun  strove  hard  to  shine, 
A  rolling  of  the  muster  drums 

Was  heard  along  the  line  ; 
In  simple  grey  the  Corporal 

Rode  with  his  head  bent  down, 
More  like  a  savan  than  the  man 

Who  won  an  Emperor's  crown. 

He  looked  at  Soult,  and  raised  his  hand, 

And  stood  godlike  upright, 
Then  all  at  once  a  silence  fell 

As  deep  and  hushed  as  night. 
Ten  thousand  faces  turned  at  once — 

Like  flowers  unto  the  sun — 
Each  gunner,  with  his  lighted  match. 

Stood  silent  by  his  gun. 

"  One  year  to-day,  my  sons,  you  placed 

The  crown  upon  my  head." 
(We  saw  his  coal-black  eye  was  fired, 

His  yellow  cheek  grew  red), 
''  The  Tartars  yonder  want  to  steal 

That  iron  crown  you  gave, 
And  will  you  let  them  ?  "     Tete  cle  Dieu  ! 

The  shout  the  soldiers  gave  ! 

Six  hundred  cannon  bellowed,  ''  No  !  " 

The  eagles  waved — and  then 
There  came  the  earthquake  clamouring 

( )f  a  hundred  thousand  men. 
In  waves  of  sound  the  grenadiers 

(,'ried.  "  Vive  1'Empereur  !  "  at  once, 


1 82  A   METRICAL  HISTOKY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  fires  broke  out  along  the  line, 
Like  Lapland's  midnight  suns. 

"  Soldiers,  a  thunderbolt  must  fall 

Upon  the  Tartar's  head, 
Your  Emperor  will  be  this  day 

Victorious  or  dead. 
My  children,  where  the  eagle  flies 

Is  (who  dare  doubt  it  ?)  France  ; 
To-day  we  '11  light  the  bivouac  fire 

With  Russia's  broken  lance." 

A  grizzled  giant,  old  Daru, 

Looked  round  him  with  a  frown- 
He  wore  upon  his  broad  bull  chest 

The  order  of  the  "  Crown." 
"  To-morrow,  Sire,  those  Russian  flags 

In  sheaves  we  hope  to  bring, 
And  lay  them  at  our  Emperor's  feet, 

A  bouquet  for  a  King." 


AUSTERLITZ. 


He  stood  before  me  stern  and  grey, 

A  soldier  of  the  Empire  gone  ; 

And  while  we  viewed  that  field  whose  name 

Shines  brightest  in  his  country's  farm-, 

To  speak  its  tale  went  on. 

"  My  fire  of  life  is  nearly  fled, 

Yet  though  it  feebly  flits, 

Still  must  I  view  with  kindling  eye, 

And  heart  with  pride  pulsating  high, 

The  field  of  Austerlitz. 


AUSTEKLIT7..  183 

"  Once  more  I  see  the  serried  lines, 
The  Bergen  lanciers  red  ; 
Their  pennons  floating  broad  and  gay, 
Their  horses,  that  impatient  neigh, 
And  Murat  at  their  head. 

"  And  onward  still  from  rank  to  rank, 
With  speed  of  lightning  flame, 
With  viva  wild  and  ringing  cheer, 
And  echo  answer  far  and  clear, 
Was  passed  the  Emperor's  name. 

"  One  moment  and  his  proud  eye  roved 
Far  o'er  that  columned  throng, 
One  moment,  and  the  next  he  spoke 
With  voice  that  wavered  not  nor  broke 
Unto  each  phalanx  long. 

"  '  Soldiers,  I  know  your  courage  high, 
I  know  it  were  but  vain 
To  praise  that  spirit  which  hath  won, 
'Neath  Alpine  skies  and  Egypt's  sun, 
For  France  such  glorious  name. 

"  '  And  that  the  glory  on  our  flag, 
Is  glory  that  never  flits, 
Behold,'  he  said,  '  in  yonder  sky, 
'Xeath  which  our  eagles  proudly  fly, 
The  Sun  of  Austerlitz  ! ' 

"  He  spoke  the  truth,  as  ever  then  ; 
For  e'er  that  sun  went  clown, 
Proud  Austria  was  a  crushed  thing  ; 
Her  laws  as  nothing,  and  her  king 
A  beggar  for  his  crown." 


ODE  TO  THE  COLUMN  OF  NAPOLEON. 

SOON  after  the  victory  at  Austerlitz  peace  was  declared 
and  Napoleon  was  at  liberty  once  more  to  return  to  his 
beloved  Paris.  There  he  devoted  himself,  with  all  the 
force  of  his  mighty  genius,  to  the  creation  of  those  mag- 
nificent works  of  art  and  of  public  utility  which  stamp  his 
name  on  the  history  of  France  even  to  this  day.  Out  of 
the  cannon  taken  from  his  enemies,  he  constructed  that 
noble  monument  in  the  Place  Vendome,  which  told  so 
vividly  the  exploits  of  the  Grand  Army  ;  to  whose  fidelity 
and  courage  it  was  consecrated. 

ODE    TO    THE    COLUMN    OF    NAPOLEON. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

On  the  foundation  that  his  glory  laid, 
With  indestructible  materials  made, 
Alike  secure  from  ruin  and  from  rust, 
Before  whose  might  all  monuments  are  dust, 
The  eternal  Column,  towering  far  on  high, 
Presents  Napoleon's  throne  unto  the  sky. 

Well  deemed  the  hero,  when  his  sovereign  hand, 
Fatigued  with  war,  the  lasting  trophy  planned, 
That  civil  discord  would  retire  in  shame 
Before  the  vast  memorial  of  his  name  ; 
And  that  the  nation  would  forget  to  praise 
The  deeds  of  those  who  shone  in  ancient  day.-.. 
184 


ODE  TO  THE    COLUMN  OF  NAPOLEON.  l8; 

Around  the  earth  his  veterans  he  had  led, 
O'er  smoking  fields  encumbered  with  the  dead, 
And  from  the  presence  of  that  host  so  true 
Armies  and  kings  in  wild  confusion  flew, 
Leaving  their  ponderous  cannon  on  the  plain, — 
A  prey  to  him  and  his  victorious  train  ! 

Then,  when  the  fields  of  France  again  were  trod 
By  him  who  came  triumphant  as  a  god, 
Bearing  the  spoils  of  the  defeated  world, — 
He  came  mid  joyous  cries  and  flags  unfurled, 
Welcome  as  eagle  to  her  infant  brood 
That  waits  on  mountain-top  its  daily  food  ! 

But  he,  intent  on  his  stupendous  aims. 

Straightway  proceeds  to  where  the  furnace  flames  ; 

And  while  his  troops,  with  haste  and  zealous  glow, 

The  massive  ordnance  in  the  caldron  throw. 

He  to  the  meanest  artisan  unfolds 

His  plans  to  form  the  fashion  of  the  moulds. 

Then  to  the  war  he  led  his  troops  once  more, 
And  from  the  foe  the  palm  of  conquest  bore  ;  — 
He  drove  the  opponent  armies  from  the  plain, 
And  seized  their  dread  artillery  again, 
As  good  material  for  the  Column  high, 
Built  to  perpetuate  his  memory  ! 

Such  was  his  task!     The  roaring  culvcrin. 

The  spur,  the  sabre,  and  the  mortar's  din, — 

These  were  his  earliest  sports  till  Egypt  gave 

Her  ancient  Pyramids  his  smile  to  save  ; 

Then,  when  the  imperial  crown  adorned  his  brow, 

He  raised  the  monument  we  reverence  now! 


1 86  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  raised  that  monument !     The  grandest  age 
Which  e'er  the  historian's  annals  might  engage 
Furnished  the  subject,  and  the  end  of  time 
Shall  boast  that  emblem  of  his  course  sublime, 
Where  Rhine  and  Tiber  rolled  in  crimson  flood, 
And  the  tall  snow-capped  Alps  all  trembling  stood  ! 

For  even  as  the  giant  race  of  old 

Ossa  on  Pelion,  mount  on  mountain,  rolled, 

To  scale  high  heaven's  towers,  so  he  has  made 

His  battles  serve  to  help  his  escalade  ; 

And  thus  to  gratify  his  fancy  wild, 

Wagram,  Arcole,  on  Austerlitz  were  piled  ! 

The  sun  unveiled  himself  in  beauty  bright, 
The  eyes  of  all  beamed  gladness  and  delight, 
When,  with  unruffled  visage,  thou  did'st  come, 
Hero  of  France  !  unto  the  Place  Vendome, 
To  mark  thy  Column  towering  from  the  ground, 
And  the  four  eagles  ranged  the  base  around. 

'T  was  then,  environed  by  thy  warriors  tried, 
As  erst  the  Romans  flocked  to  yEmilius'  side, — 
'T  was  then  each  child — each  infant,  on  whose  head 
Six  summers  scarcely  had  their  radiance  shed  — 
Murmured  applause,  and  clapped  their  little  hands, 
And  spied  their  fathers  midst  thy  serried  bands. 

Oh,  when  thou  stood'st  there,  godlike,  proud,  and  great, 

Pondering  on  conquest,  majesty,  and  state, 

Who  would  have  thought  that  e'er  the  time  could  be 

When  a  base  senate  should  dishonour  thee, 

And  cavil  o'er  thine  ashes,  for  Venclome 

At  least  is  worthy  to  become  thy  tomb  ! 


LOUISA,  OUEKN  <>K  PRUSSIA. 
From  an  engraving  by  Maria  Anne  I'.ouilier.  after  Dahling  (1805). 

London,  1:507. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  RIDE. 

WHATEVER  his  inclination  may  have  been,  Napoleon  was 
not  to  be  permitted  to  rest.  Pitt,  his  greatest  enemy,  it 
is  true,  was  dead,  and  Fox,  his  friend,  had  come  into 
power  in  the  English  Cabinet,  but  this  state  of  affairs  was 
not  to  last.  Fox  dying,  England  succeeded  in  forming  a 
new  coalition  between  Russia,  Prussia,  and  herself,  and 
war  was  again  declared  against  France.  Jena.  Eylau,  and 
Friedland,  were  the  answer  Napoleon  gave  to  this  chal- 
lenge, and  bitterly  did  Prussia,  especially,  pay  for  her  rash 
attempt  to  free  herself  from  the  toils  of  the  French  con- 
queror. But  the  seed  was  being  sown  which  was  to  bring 
forth  victory  and  revenge  for  Prussia  and  all  Germany. 
Defeat  and  humiliation  were  bringing  to  the  surface  those 
brave,  unflinching  spirits  that  nothing  could  conquer. 
Had  Frederick  William  been  endowed  with  the  same 
positive  mind  and  courageous  heart  which  Louisa,  the 
Queen,  possessed,  the  dawn  of  victory  might  have  come 
sooner  to  that  unhappy  country.  It  took  such  soldiers  as 
"  Old  Father  Uluchcr  "  and  such  indomitable  courage  as 
Louisa  possessed  to  cope  with  the  magic  power  of  Napo- 
leon. It  is  told  that  at  the  battle  of  Jena,  when  the 
Prussian  army  was  routed,  the  Queen,  mounted  upon  a 
superb  charger,  remained  on  the  field  attended  only  by 
three  or  four  of  her  escort.  A  band  of  French  hussars 

'87 


1 88  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

seeing  her,  rushed  forward  at  full  galop,  and  with  drawn 
swords  dispersed  the  little  group  and  pursued  her  all  the 
way  to  Weimar.  Had  not  the  horse  her  Majesty  rode 
possessed  the  fleetness  of  a  stag,  the  fair  Queen  would 
certainly  have  been  captured. 

This  incident,  be  it  history  or  not,  gave  occasion  for  the 
following  poem  : 

THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  RIDE. 

A.   L.   A.   SMITH. 

Fair  Queen,  away!  to  thy  charger  speak, 
A  band  of  hussars  thy  capture  seek ; 
Oh,  haste  !  escape  !  they  are  riding  this  way, 
Speak,  speak  to  thy  charger  without  delay  ; 

They  're  nigh. 

Behold  !  they  come  at  a  break-neck  pace, 
A  smile  triumphant  illumes  each  face, 
Queen  of  the  Prussians,  now  for  a  race, 

To  Weimar  for  safety — fly  ! 

She  turned,  and  her  steed  with  a  furious  dash, 
Over  the  field  like  the  lightning's  flash — 

Fled. 

Away,  like  an  arrow  from  steel  cross-bow, 
Over  hill  and  dale  in  the  sun's  fierce  glow, 
The  Queen  and  her  enemies  thundering  go, 

On  toward  Weimar  they  sped. 

The  royal  courser  is  swift  and  brave, 
And  his  royal  rider  he  tries  to  save, 

But,  no  ! 

"  Vive  1'Empereur  !  "  rings  sharp  and  clear  ; 
She  turns  and  is  startled  to  see  them  so  near, 
Then  softly  speaks  in  her  charger's  ear. 

And  awav  he  bounds  like  a  roe. 


THE    QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  RIDE.  189 

He  speeds  as  though  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
The  Queen's  pursuers  are  left  behind. 

No  more 

She  fears,  though  each  trooper  grasps  his  reins, 
Stands  up  in  his  stirrups,  strikes  spurs  and  strains  ; 
For  ride  as  they  may,  her  steed  still  gains, 

And  Weimar  is  just  before. 

Safe  !  the  clatter  now  fainter  grows, 
She  sees  in  the  distance  her  labouring  foes, 
The  gates  of  the  fortress  stand  open  wide 
To  welcome  the  German  nation's  bride 

So  dear. 

With  gallop  and  dash,  into  Weimar  she  goes, 
And  the  gates  at  once  on  her  enemies  close. 
Give  thanks,  give  thanks  !  she  is  safe  with  those 
Who  hail  her  with  cheer  on  cheer ! 


THE  GERMAN  SONG. 

JEXA  and  Auerstadt  were  terrible  blows  to  the  Prussian 
monarchy.  In  the  short  space  of  a  month,  Napoleon  had 
all  but  annihilated  Prussia's  armies  ;  had  captured  all  her 
principal  cities  and  fortresses,  and  had  entered  Berlin  in 
triumph.  With  a  mere  handful  of  soldiers  Frederick 
retreated  to  the  utmost  confines  of  his  kingdom,  there  to 
await  the  coming  of  Alexander  and  the  Russian  army. 
Everything  was  in  the  most  dire  confusion.  The  country 
was  occupied  and  run  over  by  the  victorious  French  war- 
riors ;  the  glory  of  Frederick  the  Great  and  his  Seven 
Years'  War  was  as  a  tradition  only,  to  this  once  proud 
and  mighty  nation,  now  bowed  to  the  very  dust  in  woeful 
humiliation.  But  the  German  poets  and  song  writers 
began  about  this  time  to  do  the  work,  which  armed  sol- 
diers, led  by  skilled  leaders,  had  failed  to  accomplish.  It 
\vas  such  soul-stirring  hymns  as  the  following  that  united 
the  Fatherland  in  the  one  common  cause,  which  had  for 
its  sole  end  and  object  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon  : 

GERMAN     S0\(;. 

1 806. 

KRNKST  MOKIT/.  AKNDT. 

(.)  Hermann  !   for  thy  country's  fall 

Xo  tears!  Where  vanquished  valour  bled 
190 


THE    GERMAN   SONG.  lo,l 

The  victor  rules,  and  Slavery's  pall 

Upon  these  hills  and  vales  is  spread. 
Shame  burns  within  me,  for  the  brave 
Lie  mouldering  in  the  freeman's  grave. 

No  voice  !  where  sturdy  Luther  spoke 
Fearless  for  men  who  dared  be  free  ! 

Oh,  would  that  Heaven's  thunder  woke 
My  people  for  their  liberty  ! 

Must  heroes  fight  and  die  in  vain? — 

Ye  cowards,  grasp  your  swords  again  ! 

Revenge  !   revenge  !  a  gory  shroud 
To  tyrants,  and  the  slaves  that  yield  ! 

Eternal  honour  calls  aloud 

For  courage  in  the  battle-field. 

Who  loves  or  fears  a  conquered  land 

That  bows  beneath  the  despot's  hand  ? 

And  whither  flee?     Where  Winkelried 
And  Tell  and  Ruyter  bravely  broke 

Oppression's  power — their  country  freed 
All — all  beneath  the  usurper's  yoke  ! 

From  Alpine  fountains  to  the  sea 

The  patriot  dead  alone  are  free. 

My  people!   in  this  sorrowing  night, 
The  clanking  of  your  chains  may  be 

The  sign  of  vengeance,  and  the  fight 
Of  former  times  the  world  may  see, 

When  Hermann  in  that  storied  day 

As  a  wild  torrent  cleft  his  way. 

No  idle  song,  ()  youth  !   thy  boast 
In  self-born  virtue  be  as  one 


192  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

Who  is  himself  a  mighty  host 

By  whose  sole  arm  is  victory  won. 
No  blazoned  monument  so  grand 
As  death  for  the  dear  Fatherland. 

To  die  !  how  welcome  to  the  brave  ! 

The  tomb  awakes  no  coward  fear 
Save  to  the  wretched,  trembling  slave 

Who  for  his  country  sheds  no  tear. 
To  crown  me  with  a  fadeless  wreath 
Be  thine,  O  happy,  sacred  death  ! 

Come,  shining  sword  !  avenge  my  dead  ! 

Alone  canst  thou  remove  this  shame. 
Proud  ornament !  with  slaughter  red 

Restore  my  native  land  its  fame. 
By  night,  by  day,  in  sun  or  shade, 
Be  girt  around  me,  trusty  blade. 

The  trumpet  on  the  morning  gale  ! 

Arm  !  forward  to  the  bloody  strife  ! 
From  loftiest  mountain  to  the  vale 

Asks  dying  Freedom  for  her  life. 
Our  standard  raise,  to  glory  given, 
And  higher  still  our  hearts  to  Heaven. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  EYLAU. 

HUNDREDS  of  leagues  from  the  frontiers  of  France  ; 
with  a  long  dreary  winter  before  him  ;  with  Russia  and 
her  countless  hordes  pouring  down  on  him  from  the  north, 
to  join  with  Prussia,  and  what  was  left  of  her  armies,  in 
another  effort  to  crush  him  ;  with  Austria  in  his  rear  wait- 
ing only  the  opportune  moment  to  attack  him,  the  position 
of  Napoleon  after  the  battle  of  Jena  appeared  to  be  truly 
a  dangerous  one.  Not  so,  however,  to  the  master-mind 
that  guided  and  controlled  the  fate  of  the  Grand  Army 
and  of  France.  Instead  of  retreat,  onward  !  was  the 
word.  To  go  into  winter  quarters  on  the  Vistula  and  to 
push  forward,  still  further  in  the  spring,  was  the  pro- 
gramme. The  winter  quarters  were  established,  but  they 
were  to  afford  little  rest  to  the  weary  soldiers.  Alexander, 
thinking  to  surprise  the  French  arm}-  while  lying  in  can- 
tonment, put  his  army  in  motion.  Napoleon,  ever  on  the 
alert  and  read}'  to  take  advantage  of  an}-  false  movement 
of  his  enemy,  at  once  broke  up  his  encampment,  boldly 
moved  out  and  attacked  those  who  were  to  surprise  and 
attack  him.  Beaten  at  ever}-  point,  the  Russian  army, 
after  a  retreat  of  two  hundred  miles  from  the  Vistula, 
took  its  stand  upon  the  plain  of  Eylau,  where,  on  the 
eighth  of  February,  1807,  was  fought  one  of  the  most 
terrible  battles  recorded  in  histor.  The  destruction  of 


194  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

life  on  both  sides  was  something  awful,  and  the  suffering 
endured  by  reason  of  the  snow  and  ice  and  the  intense 
cold,  was  appalling.  After  eighteen  hours  struggle, 
Napoleon  remained  master  of  the  field,  but  with  no 
decisive  victory  to  his  credit. 

TI1K    BATTLE    OF    EYLAU. 

ISAAC  McLELi.AN. 

Fast  and  furious  falls  the  snow  ; 
Shrilly  the  bleak  tempests  blow. 
With  a  sound  of  wailing  woe, 

O'er  the  soil  ; 

Where  the  watch-fires  blaze  around, 
Thick  the  warriors  stre\v  the  ground, 
Each  in  weary  slumber  bound, 

Worn  with  toil. 

Harken  to  the  cannon-blast  ! 
Drums  are  beating  fierce  and  fast  : 
Fierce  and  fast  the  trumpets  cast 

Warning  call. 

Form  the  battle's  stern  parade. 
Charge  the  musket,  draw  the  blade  ; 
Square  and  column  stand  arrayed, 

One  and  all. 

On  they  rush  in  stern  career. 
Dragoon  and   swart  cuirassier  ; 
Hussar-lance  and  Cossack-spear 

Clanging  meet  ! 
Now  the  grenadier  of  France 
Sinks  beneath  the  Imperial  lance; 
Now  the  Prussian  horse  advance, 

Now  retreat. 


THE   BATTLE    OF  EYLAU.  195 

Davoust,  with  his  line  of  steel, 
Storms  their  squadrons  till  they  reel. 
While  his  ceaseless  cannon-peal 

Rends  the  sky. 

'Gainst  that  crush  of  iron  hail 
Naught  may  Russia's  ranks  avail  ; 
Like  the  torn  leaves  in  the  gale, 

See,  they  fly  ! 

Through  the  battle's  smoky  gloom 
Shineth  Murat's  snowy  plume  : 
Fast  his  cohorts  to  their  doom 

Spur  the  way. 

Plat  off,  with  his  desert  horde. 
Is  upon  them  with  the  sword  ; 
Deep  his  Tartar-spears  have  gored 

Their  array. 

With  his  thousands,  Augereau 
Paints  with  blood  the  virgin  sn<>\v  ; 

o 

Low  in  war's  red  overthrow 

Sleep  they  on  ! 

Helm  and  breastplate  they  have  lost, 
Spoils  that  long  shall  be  the  boast 
Of  the  savage-bearded  host 

Of  the  Don. 

Charge,  Napoleon  !      Where  be  those 
At  Marengo  quelled    thy  foes  : 
Crowning  thee  at  Jena's  close 

Conqueror  .' 

At  this  hour  of  deadly  need 
Faintly  thy  old  guardsmen  bleed  ; 
Vain  dies  cuirassier  and  .steed, 

Drenched  with  <_yoiv. 


196  A    METRICAL   HISTORY    OF  NAPOLEON^ 

Sad  the  frosty  moonbeam  shone 
O'er  the  snows  with  corses  strown, 
Where  the  frightful  shriek  and  groan 

Rose  amain  : 

Loud  the  night-wind  rang  their  knell  : 
Fast  the  flaky  horrors  fell, 
Hiding  in  their  snowy  cell 

Heaps  of  slain  ! 

Many  a  year  hath  passed  and  fled 
O'er  that  harvest  of  the  dead  ; 
On  thy  rock  the  Chief  hath  sped, 

St.  Helene  ! 

Still  the  Polish  peasant  shows 
The  round  hillocks  of  the  foes, 
Where  the  long  grass  rankly  grows, 

Darkly  green. 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOT HA. 

DlRKCTLV  after  the  battle  of  Eylau,  Napoleon  endeav- 
oured to  bring  about  a  settlement  of  peace  with  Russia 
and  Prussia,  and  he  made  propositions  to  that  effect ;  but 
his  efforts  were  unavailing.  The  Allies,  considering  his 
proposal  an  indication  of  weakness,  determined  on  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  war,  and  awaited  only  the  event  of 
spring  in  order  to  test  once  more  the  fate  of  battle.  Na- 
poleon returned  with  his  army  to  their  winter  quarters 
upon  the  Vistula,  which  were,  in  a  few  months,  to  be 
again  vacated  for  the  bloody  field.  On  the  fifth  of  June, 
1807,  the  Russians  attacked  the  French  in  their  canton- 
ments ;  and  on  the  fourteenth  of  the  same  month  the 
battle  of  Friedland  was  fought,  and  another  glorious  vic- 
tory added  to  the  long  list  already  won  by  Napoleon. 
Friedland  was  followed  by  the  famous  meeting  of  the 
Emperors  upon  a  raft  in  the  middle  of  the  river  Nicmen, 
and  the  proclamation  of  the  Peace  of  Tilsit,  which  was 
signed  in  July.  The  Continent  was  again  at  peace.  Eng- 
land alone  refused  to  acknowledge  the  Conqueror,  and 
went  steadily  on  in  her  determination  to  crush  him  and 
his  government  out  of  existence.  The  Emperor  .Alexan- 
der of  Russia,  on  the  other  hand,  was  completely  infatu- 
ated with  Napoleon  :  and  while  yet  at  Tilsit  the  two 
entered  into  a  secret  treat}'  which  had  for  its  objects. 


198  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Constantinople  for  Alexander  and  the  rest  of  Europe  for 
Napoleon  ;  or,  at  least,  that  was  about  the  way  Alexander 
understood  it.  Napoleon  had  no  thought  of  permitting 
the  key  to  all  India  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  Alexander; 
but  it  was  his  policy  to  make  Alexander  believe  he  would. 
To  keep  up  the  delusion  and  to  further  fascinate  the 
Czar,  the  conference  at  Erfurt  was  appointed  by  Napoleon, 
and  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  September,  1808,  the  two 
Emperors  again  met.  Napoleon  was  the  host,  and  to  aid 
in  entertaining  the  Czar  he  had  for  guests,  kings,  dukes, 
princes,  and  high  dignitaries  of  the  church,  the  army,  and 
the  state.  All  the  splendour  and  the  beauty  of  Germany 
flocked  to  the  little  town.  It  was  there  that  Talma 
played  to  ''  a  pit  full  of  kings."  It  was  there  that  Napo- 
leon and  Alexander  united  in  a  letter  to  the  King  of 
England  imploring  peace.  It  was  there  the  two  Em- 
perors parted,  never  again  to  meet.  Napoleon,  it  is  true, 
did  go  to  Moscow,  and  certainly  received  a  warm  wel- 
come, but  liis  old  friend  Alexander  was  not  there  to 
receive  him.  In  1809,  at  Schonbrun,  while  holding  a 
grand  review  in  celebration  of  the  victory  at  Wagram  and 
of  the  treaty  of  peace  signed  with  Austria,  Napoleon 
narrowly  escaped  assassination  at  the  hands  of  a  young 
German.  It  must  have  been  this  incident,  which  Bayard 
Taylor  had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  the  following  lines,  as 
we  are  \vholly  unable  to  find  mention  anywhere  of  an 
attempt  on  Napoleon's  life  during  the  meeting  at  Erfurt. 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTH  A.  199 

NAPOLEON    AT  (1OTHA. 

r.AVAKD  TAYIOK. 

We  walk  amid  the  currents  of  actions  left  undone, 
The  germs  of  deeds  that  wither,  before  they  see  the  sun. 
For  every  sentence  uttered,  a  million  more  are  dumb  : 
Men's  lives  are  chains  of  chances,  and  History  their  sum. 

Not  he,  the  Syracusan,  but  each  enpurpled  lord 
Must  eat  his  banquet  under  the  hair-suspended  sword  ; 
And  one  swift  breath  of  silence  may  fix  or  change  the  fate 
Of  him  whose  force  is  building  the  fabric  of  a  State. 

Where  o'er  the  windy  uplands  the  slated  turrets  shine, 
Duke  August  ruled  at  Gotha,  in  Castle  Friedenstein, — 
A  handsome  prince  and  courtly,  of  light  and  shallow 

heart, 
No  better  than  he  should  be,  but  witli  a  taste  for  Art. 

The  fight  was  fought  at    Jena,  eclipsed  was  Prussia's  sun, 
And  by  the  French  invaders  the  land  was  overrun  ; 
But  while  the  German  people  were  silent  in  despair, 
Duke  August  painted  pictures,  and  curled  his  yellow  hair. 

Now,  when  at  Erfurt  gathered  the  ruling  royal  clan, 
Themselves  the  humble  subjects,  their  lord  the  Corsican, 
Each  bade  to  ball  and  banquet  the  sparer  of  his  line  : 
Duke  August  with  the  others,  to  Castle  Friedenstein. 

Then   were   the   larders  rummaged,   the   forest-stags  \\vrv 

slain, 

The  tuns  of  oldest  vintage  showered  out  their  golden  rain  : 
The  towers  were  bright  with  banners    -but  all  the  people 

said  : 
"  We,  slaves,  must  feed  our  master-   would   God   that    lie 

were  dead  ! 


200  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

They    drilled   the    ducal    guardsmen,    men     young   and 

straight  and  tall, 

To  form  a  double  column,  from  gate  to  castle-wall  ; 
And  as  there  were  but  fifty,  the  first  must  wheel  away, 
Fall  in  behind  the  others,  and  lengthen  the  array. 

"  Parblcn  /  "     Napoleon     muttered  :     "  Your     Highness' 

guards  I  prize, 
So   young  and   strong  and   handsome,   and   all  of  equal 

size  !  " 
"  You,  Sire,"  replied  Duke  August,  "  may  have  as  fine,  if 

you 
Will  twice  or  thrice  repeat  them,  as    I  am  forced  to  do  !  " 

Now,  in  the  Castle  household,  of  all  the  folk,  was  one 
Whose  heart  was  hot  within  him,  the  Ducal  Huntsman's 

son  ; 
A   proud   and   bright-eyed  stripling  ;  scarce   fifteen  years 

*  he  had 
But  free  of  hall  and   chamber  :   Duke   August   loved  the 

lad. 

He  saw  the   forceful  homage  ;   he   heard   the  shouts  that 

came 

From  base  throats,  or  unwilling,  but  equally  of  shame  ; 
He  thought  :   "  One  man   has  done  it — one  life  would   free 

the  land. 
But  all  are  slaves  and   cowards,  and  none  will   lift  a  hand  ! 

"My  grandsire   hugged  a  bear  to   death,  when   broke   his 

hunting-spear  ; 

And  has  this  little  Frenchman  a  muz/.le  I  should  fear' 
If  kings  are  cowed,  and  princes,  and  all  the  land  is  scared, 
Perhaps  a  boy  can  show  them   the  thing  they  might   have 

dared  !  " 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTH  A.  2OI 

Napoleon  on  the  morrow  was  coming  once  again, 
(And  all  the  castle  knew  it)  without  his  courtly  train  ; 
And,  when   the  stairs  were   mounted,  there  was  no  other 

road 
But  one,  long,  lonely  passage,  to  where  the  Duke  abode. 

None  guessed  the  secret  purpose  the  silent  stripling  kept. 
Deep  in  the  night  he  waited,  and,  when  his  father  slept, 
Took  from  the  rack  of  weapons  a  musket  old  and  tried. 
And  cleaned  the  lock  and  barrel,  and  laid  it  by  his  side. 

He  held  it  fast  in  slumber,  he  lifted  it  in  dreams 
Of     sunlit    mountain  -  forests    and     stainless    mountain- 
streams  ; 

And  in  the  morn  he  loaded — the  load  was  bullets  three: 
"  For  Deutschland — for  Duke  August — and  now  the  third 
for  me  !  " 

"  \Yhat  !  ever  wilt  be  hunting?  "  the  stately  Marshal  cried  ; 
"  I  '11  fetch  a  stag  of  twenty  !  "  the  pale-faced  boy  replied, 
As,  clad  in  forest  colour,  he  sauntered  through  the  court, 
And  said,  when  none  could  hear  him  :  "  Now.  may  the 
time  be  short !  " 

The  corridor  was  vacant,  the  windows   full  of  sun  ; 
He  stole  within  the  midmost,  and  primed  afresh  his  gun  ; 
Then  stood,  with  all  his  senses  alert  in  ear  and  eye 
To  catch   the   lightest   signal   that   showed   the   Kmperor 
nigh. 

A  sound  of  wheels  ;   a  silence  ;   the  muffled,  sudden  jar 
Of  guards  their  arms  presenting;  a  footstep  mounting  far. 
Then  nearer,  briskly  nearer — a  footstep,  and  alone! 
And  at  the  farther  portal  appeared  Napoleon  ! 


202  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Alone,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  firm  and  massive  head 
With   brooded   plans   uplifted,    he   came   with    measured 

tread  ; 
And  yet,  those  feet  had    shaken    the  nations   from  their 

poise, 
And  yet,  that  will  to  shake  them  depended  on  the  boy's  ! 

With  finger  on  the  trigger,  the  gun  held  hunter-wise, 
His  rapid  heart-beats  sending  the  blood  to  brain  and  eyes, 
The  boy  stood,  firm  and  deadly — another  moment's  space, 
And  then  the  Emperor  saw  him,  and  halted,  face  to  face. 

A  mouth  as  cut  in  marble,  and  eye  that  pierced  and  stung 
As  might  a  god's,  all-seeing,  the  soul  of  one  so  young  ; 
A  look  that  read  his  secret,  that  lamed  his  callow  will, 
That  inly  smiled,  and  dared  him  his  purpose  to  fulfil ! 

As  one  a  serpent  trances,  the  boy  forgetting  all, 

Felt  but  that  face,  nor  noted  the  harmless  musket's  fall : 

Nor  breathed,  nor  thought,  nor  trembled  ;  but,  pale  and 

cold  as  stone, 
Saw  pass,  nor  look  behind  him,  the  calm  Napoleon. 

And  these  two  kept  their  secret  ;  but  from  that  clay  began 
The  sense  of  fate  and  duty  that  made  the  boy  a  man  ; 
And  still  he  lives  to  tell  it. — and.  better,  lives  to  say  : 
"God's  purposes  were  grander:   lie  thrust   me  from   his. 
way  !  " 


TALLEYRAND. 
From  an  engraving  by  Le  Vachex. 

Paris,   1804.    ' 


INSCRIPTION     FOR    A     MONUMENT    AT 
VIMEIRO. 

IT  was  soon  after  the  peace  of  Tilsit  that  the  first  idea 
of  an  intervention  in  the  affairs  of  Spain  was  suggested  to 
Napoleon,  and  the  suggestion  came  from  that  evil  genius, 
Talleyrand.  It  is  true  that  the  secret  treaty  entered  into 
at  Fontainebleau  between  France  and  Spain  on  the 
twenty-seventh  of  September,  1807,  had  for  its  only 
apparent  object  the  wiping  of  Portugal,  as  a  nation,  from 
the  map  of  the  world  ;  but  behind  that  Talleyrand  had  in 
view  the  same  fate  for  Spain.  In  fulfilment  of  the  above 
treat}'  the  French  army,  in  conjunction  with  that  of  Spain, 
entered  Portugal,  and,  without  resistance  or  bloodshed, 
Lisbon  was  occupied  on  the  thirteenth  of  November, 
1807.  The  royal  family  had  fled,  and  but  the  day  before 
had  sailed  for  Brazil.  The  commander  of  the  French 
forces,  General  Junot,  was  made  governor  of  the  country, 
anil  ruled  it  with  varying  degrees  of  success  until  the 
twenty-first  of  August  following,  when  the  result  of  the 
battle  of  Vimeiro  led  to  the  Convention  of  Cintra  and  the 
evacuation  of  Portugal  by  the  entire  French  force. 

INSCRIPTION    FOR    A    MONUMKNT    AT    VIMFIRo. 


This  is  Vimeiro  ;   yonder  stream,  which  flows 
Westward  through  heatherv  highlands  to  the 


204  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Is  called  Maceira,  till  of  late  a  name, 

Save  to  the  dwellers  of  this  peaceful  vale, 

Known  only  to  the  coasting  mariner  ; 

Now  in  the  bloody  page  of  war  inscribed. 

When  to  the  aid  of  injured  Portugal 

Struggling  against  the  intolerable  yoke 

Of  treacherous  France,  England  her  old  ally, 

Long  tried  and  always  faithful  found,  went  forth, 

The  embattled  hosts,  in  equal  strength  arrayed 

And  equal  discipline,  encountered  here. 

Junot,  the  mock  Abrantes,  led  the  French, 

And  confident  of  skill  so  oft  approved, 

And  vaunting  many  a  victory,  advanced 

Against  an  untried  foe.     But  when  the  ranks 

Met  in  the  shock  of  battle,  man  to  man, 

And  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed, 

The  flower  of  France,  cut  down  along  their  line, 

Fell  like  ripe  grass  before  the  mower's  scythe  ;' 

For  the  strong  arm  and  rightful  cause  prevailed. 

That  day  delivered  Lisbon  from  the  yoke, 

And  babes  were  taught  to  bless  Sir  Arthur's  name. 


BATTLE   OF  CORUNNA. 

NAPOLEON'S  interference  in  Spanish  affairs  was  more 
than  a  mistake  on  his  part ;  it  was  a  blunder.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  find  a  single  good  excuse  for  his  conduct  towards 
that  nation.  It  was  wholly  unwarranted,  no  matter  from 
what  point  of  view  one  looks  at  it.  The  meeting  at 
Bayonne  between  Napoleon,  Charles  IV.,  and  Ferdinand 
VII.  took  place  on  the  fifteenth  of  April,  1808;  on  May 
first,  Ferdinand  abdicated  in  favour  of  his  father,  and  on 
May  fifth,  the  father  surrendered  the  crown  of  Spain  to 
Napoleon,  who,  on  June  sixth,  following,  gave  the  same 
to  his  brother  Joseph.  From  that  time  forward  every- 
thing went  wrong  on  the  Peninsula.  Had  Napoleon 
stopped  before  taking  the  course  he  did  with  regard  to 
Spanish  affairs,  and  had  he  been  content  with  the  glory 
already  won,  he  might  have  gone  down  into  history  as 
the  founder  of  an  empire  second  only  to  that  of  Rome  in 
its  extent,  power,  and  duration.  It  was  at  this  period  in 
his  career  he  reached  the  xenith.  Combined  Europe  lay 
at  his  feet.  His  brothers  and  sisters  were  kings  and 
queens  by  virtue  merely  of  their  relationship  to  him.  He 
\vas  absolute  master  of  the  whole  situation.  Why  then 
endanger  it  all  by  seizing  a  crown  which  he  could  not 
hope  to  keep?  Why  waste  so  much  blood  and  treasure 
in  trying  to  subjugate  a  people  so  bigoted  and  so  priest- 

20; 


2O6  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOAT. 

ridden?  He  never  gave  any  satisfactory  answer  himself; 
but  he  did  say  at  St.  Helena  that  the  impolicy  of  his 
conduct  in  relation  to  Spain  was  irrevocably  decided  by 
the  results,  and  that  the  unfortunate  war  in  the  Peninsula 
was  a  real  affliction  and  the  first  cause  of  the  calamities 
which  afterward  befell  France  ;  and  he  often  expressed 
regret  at  having  undertaken  it.  Joseph  not  being  able 
to  cope  with  the  insurrections  which  were  taking  place  in 
every  part  of  his  kingdom,  and  England  having  taken  an 
active  part  in  trying  to  restore  the  Bourbons  to  the 
throne  by  sending  her  armies  to  the  help  of  Spain,  Napo- 
leon resolved  once  more  to  take  the  field  in  person,  and 
on  the  fourth  of  November,  1808,  he  entered  Spain  at 
the  head  of  an  army  of  veterans.  In  less  than  five  weeks 
he  defeated  every  Spanish  army  he  met  and  compelled 
the  English  army,  under  Sir  John  Moore,  to  beat  a  most 
disastrous  and  humiliating  retreat  towards  the  sea.  In 
consequence  of  the  news  received  by  him  that  Austria 
had  entered  into  an  alliance  with  England  and  was  about 
to  attack  him  in  the  north,  Napoleon  turned  over  the 
command  of  his  army  to  Marshal  Soult  and  started  for 
Paris.  Soult  drove  the  English  army  to  Corunna,  where 
it. made  its  final  stand  before  embarking,  and  where  its 
gallant  leader,  Sir  John  Moore,  was  killed.  Had  Napo- 
leon been  allowed  to  retain  personal  command  of  the 
army,  the  result  of  the  war  in  the  Peninsula  would  no 
doubt  have  been  just  the  opposite  from  what  it  turned 
out  to  be. 


BATTLE    OF   COKUNA'A.  2O; 

HATTU-:    OF    CORUNXA. 

WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWI.KS. 

The  tide  of  fate  rolls  on  ! — heart-pierced  and  pale, 
The  gallant  soldier  lies,  nor  aught  avail 
The  shield,  the  sword,  the  spirit  of  the  brave, 
From  rapine's  armed  hand  thy  vales  to  save, 
Land  of  illustrious  heroes,  who,  of  yore, 
Drenched  the  same  plains  with  the  invader's  gore. 
Stood  frowning,  in  the  front  of  death,  and  hurled 
Defiance  to  the  conquerors  of  the  world  ! 
Oh,  when  we  hear  the  agonising  tale 
Of  those  who,  faint  and  fugitive  and  pale, 
Saw  hourly,  harassed  through  their  long  retreat. 
Some  worn  companion  sinking  at  their  feet, 
Yet  even  in  danger  and  from  toil  more  bold, 
Back  on  their  gathering  foes  the  tide  of  battle  rolled  ; 
While  tears  of  pity  mingled  with  applause, 
On  the  dread  scene  in  silence  let  us  pause. 
Yes,  pause,  and  ask,  Is  not  thy  lawful  hand 
Stretched  out,  O  God,  o'er  a  devoted  land, 
Whose  vales  of  beauty  Nature  spread  in  vain, 
Where  Misery  moaned  on  the  uncultured  plain, 
Where  Bigotry  went  by  with  jealous  scowl. 
Where  Superstition  muttered  in  his  cowl ; 
Whilst  o'er  the  Inquisition's  dismal  holds, 
Its  horrid  banner  waved  in  bleeding  folds  ! 


Bl'RIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN   MOORE,   1809. 

SIR  JOHN  MOORE  could  no  doubt  have  made  terms  with 
Marshal  Soult,  whereby  he  would  have  been  permitted 
to  embark  his  troops  under  very  reasonable  conditions  ; 
but  he  chose  to  ask  no  favours  from  the  French  com- 
mander, and  he  fell,  fighting  gallantly  for  the  honour  of 
his  country.  His  burial  at  midnight  upon  the  ramparts 
of  Corunna,  from  which  place  he  had  hoped  to  take  his 
army  in  safety  on  the  morrow,  has  been  made  familiar  to 
all  of  us  in  the  following  lines: 

BURIAL    OF    SIR    JOHN    MOORE,    1809. 

RKV.  CHAKI.KS  WOLFK. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 
We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet,  nor  in  shroud,  we  wound  him  ; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


BURIAL    OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE.  209 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed. 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 
Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that  's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he  '11  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him  ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring, 
And  we  heard  by  th'  distant  and  random  gun, 

That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 
Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame,  fresh  and  gory  ! 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 

But  we  left  him — alone  with  his  glory  ! 


THE  MAID   OF  SARAGOSSA. 

SARAGOSSA  was  besieged  twice  before  it  was  finally 
taken,  and  each  time  it  was  defended  with  the  greatest 
valour  by  General  Palafox,  a  brave  and  gallant  Spanish 
soldier.  In  June,  1808,  the  French  army,  under  com- 
mand of  General  Lefebvre,  appeared  before  the  walls  of 
the  city,  and  for  over  two  months  the  terrible  contest 
went  on.  The  Spaniards  defended  their  homes  with  the 
fierce  determination  of  their  race,  and  with  the  resolve  to 
beat  back  the  invaders  or  die  beneath  the  ruins  of  their 
city.  When  called  upon  to  surrender,  Palafox  sent  back 
the  old  Spanish  challenge,  "  War  at  the  knife's  point." 
Every  man  within  the  city  became  a  soldier,  and  even 
the  women  enlisted  in  the  service.  The  monks  either 
took  up  arms  or  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  gunpow- 
der as  the  supply  ran  low.  The  suffering  among  the 
people  was  terrible,  and  the  carnage  caused  by  the  bom- 
bardment and  the  assaults  of  the  enemy  was  something 
horrible.  Foot  by  foot  the  French  army  advanced,  until 
fully  one  half  of  the  city  was  in  their  possession.  Hand- 
to-hand  conflicts  were  of  daily  occurrence,  and  at  one 
time  it  looked  as  if  nothing  could  save  the  devoted  in- 
habitants from  the  sword  of  the  conquerors.  A  battery 
had  been  swept  clean  of  its  gunners  by  the  awful  fire  of 
the  foe  ;  men  could  not  be  found  brave  enough  to  fill 


THE   MAID    OF  SAKAGOSSA.  211 

the  empty  places  :  a  woman  sprang  to  the  front,  seized  a 
lighted  match  from  the  hand  of  a  dead  artilleryman  and 
poured  the  contents  of  a  loaded  cannon  into  the  breasts 
of  the  advancing  Frenchmen.  Her  example  was  conta- 
gious. The  battery  was  served  and  the  enemy  repulsed 
at  every  point.  This  deed  won  for  the  noble  woman  the 
title  of  "  The  Maid  o/  Saragossa." 

In  August  Lefebvre  raised  the  siege  and  withdrew  from 
before  the  city. 

THK    MAID    OF    SAKAGOSSA. 

CHAKI.KS  S\VAIN. 

There  were  murmurs  through  the  night  ; 

As  of  multitudes  in  prayer ; 
There  were  tears  of  wild  affright. 

And  the  wailing  of  despair  : 
For  Invasion's  gory  hand 
Scattered  havoc  o'er  the  land. 

The  startled  morn  arose 

To  the  trumpet's  fierce  acclaim, 
To  the  ringing  steel  of   foes. 

And  the  battle-bolts  of  flame; 
Whilst  the  Gallic  wolves  of  war 
Round  were  howling,  and  afar. 

The  matron  armed  her  son, 

And  pointed  to  the  walls  : 
"  See,  the  carnage  hath  begun. 

'  F  is  thy  bleeding  country  calls  ! 
Better,  son,  the  patriot's  tomb 
Than  a  slave's  ignoble  doom." 


212  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  gray-haired  father  took 

His  time-worn  brand  and  shield  ; 
The  pale  monk  closed  his  book, 

The  peasant  left  his  field  : 
And  daughters,  e'en  a  scar  had  grieved, 
No\v  deeds  of  dauntless  heart  achieved. 

Right  onward  clashed  the  foe, 

O'er  the  red  and  reeking  ground, 
Till  the  giant  gates  below 

Burst  with  an  earthquake  sound  ; 
And  the  rocking  walls  yawned  deep, 
'Neath  the  cannon's  shattering  sweep. 

Yet  ne'er  with  tyrant  warred 

A  firmer,  bolder  band  : 
Again  the  gates  were  barred, 

Again  the  walls  were  manned  ; 
Again,  as  with  prophetic  sight, 
The  hallowed  cross  advanced  the  fight. 

But  heavier  woes  befell 

The  still  unvanquished  brave, 
Mid  sounds  that  seemed  the  knell 

Of  freedom's  hopeless  grave  : 
A  hurricane,  a  blazing  shower, 
Swept — shivered  rampart,  rock,  and   tower  ! 

In  that  appalling  hour 

\Yhen  Fate  with  Gaul  combined 
To  quell  the  freeman's  power 

To  crush  the  valiant  mind, — 
When  e'en  the  last  defence  had  died, 
Who  braved  the  storm  ?  who  stemmed   tin- tide? 


THE   MAID    Of-'   SAXAGOSSA.  21 

No  steel-girt  knight  of  fame, 
No  chief  of  high  emprise  ; 
A  maiden's  soul  enshrined  the  flame 
Which  lit  Hope's  darkening  skies  ; 
A  maiden's  valour  dealt  the  blow, 
And  stepped  'tween  conquest  and  the  foe  ; 

Stood  on  that  fatal  brink, 

Defying  pain  and  death! 
And  could  Napoleon's  legions  shrink 

Before  a  woman's  breath  ? 
Could  Gaul's  proud  eagle,  from  its  height, 
Stoop  to  a  mean,  disastrous  flight  ? 

Yes  :  that  fair  arm  withstood 

The  chivalry  of  France, 
And  poured  destruction,  like  a  flood, 

On  quailing  helm  and  lance  : 
Leonidas  in  maiden's  stole, 
A  woman's  breast  with  Curtius'  soul. 

Heroic  heart  and  true! 

Thy  deeds  shall  find  a  voice 
To  bid  usurping  tyrants  rue, 

And  Freedom's  sons  rejoice: 
The  loved  of  Time,  the  prized  of  Fame. 
Spain's  noblest  boast,  and  Gallia's  shame  ! 


THE  BENEDICTION. 

WHILE  Napoleon  and  Sou  It  were  driving  the  English 
army  under  Moore  out  of  Spain,  Marshal  Lannes  was 
engaged  in  the  second  siege  of  Saragossa.  Palafox  made 
this  one  of  the  most  memorable  defences  recorded  in 
history.  One  hundred  thousand  souls  filled  the  city,  of 
whom  about  forty  thousand  were  soldiers.  For  t\vo 
months  the  horrible  butchery  went  on,  without  cessation 
and  without  mercy.  The  crude  fortifications  were  bat- 
tered down,  and  the  French  army  rushed  over  the  walls 
only  to  meet  a  foe  determined  to  fight  while  a  stone  re- 
mained standing  in  the  city.  Houses  were  demolished 
and  convents  blown  into  the  air  ;  still  the  conflict  went 
on,  from  street  to  street  and  from  house  to  house.  The 
monks,  with  crucifixes  in  their  hands,  were  unremitting  in 
their  endeavours  to  stimulate  the  exertions  of  the  citizens 
and  soldiers,  and  they  contributed  much,  by  their  example 
and  by  their  influence,  to  the  obstinacy  of  the  defence. 
They  preached,  they  absolved,  they  fought,  as  the  occa- 
sion demanded.  They  died  storming  a  convent  which 
the  French  had  taken,  and  they  died  defending  the  sacred 
altar  still  in  their  possession.  But  all  in  vain  ;  the  French 
veterans  were  in  the  end  victorious,  and  on  the  twenty- 
first  of  February,  1809,  the  intrepid  Palafox  surrendered. 
One  third  of  the  city  was  entirely  demolished  ;  one  half 

214 


TV/A'   BENEDICTION.  215 

of  the  inhabitants  and  two  thirds  of  the  soldiers  were 
dead.  Disease  and  starvation  had  killed  those  whom  the 
bullet  spared.  The  hatred  of  the  French  soldier  towards 
the  monks,  and  the  way  they  treated  them  during  the 
awful  siege,  is  vividly  told  in  the  following  lines. 

THE    BENEDICTION. 

FRANCIS  Con-fin. 

It  was  in  eighteen  hundred — yes — and  nine, 

That  we  took  Saragossa.     What  a  day 

Of  untold  horrors  !     I  was  sergeant  then. 

The  city  carried,  we  laid  siege  to  houses, 

All  shut  up  close,  and  with  a  treacherous  look, 

Raining  down  shots  upon  us  from  the  windows. 

''  'Tis  the  priest's  doing  !  "  was  the  word  passed  round  ; 

So  that,  although  since  daybreak  under  arms. — 

Our  eyes  with  powder  smarting,  and  our  mouths 

Bitter  with  kissing  cartridge-ends, — piff  !   paff  ! 

Rattled  the  musketry  with  reach'  aim. 

If  shovel  hat  and  long  black  coat  were  seen 

Flying  in  the  distance.      Up  a  narrow  street 

My  company  worked  on.      I  kept  an  eye 

On  every  house-top,  right  and  left,  and  saw 

From  main'  a  roof  flames  suddenly  burst  forth, 

Colouring  the  sky.  as  from  the  chimney-tops 

Among  the  forges.      Low  our  fellows  stooped, 

Filtering  the  low-pitched   dens.      When  they  came  out, 

With  bayonets  dripping  red,  their  bloody  fingers 

Signed  crosses  on  the  wall  ;    for  we  were  bound, 

In  such  a  dangerous  cletile,  not  to  leave 

Foes  lurking  in  our  rear.      'I  here  was  no  drum-beat, 

Xo  ordered  march.      Our  officers  looked  grave  : 

The  rank  and  file  uneasy,  logging  elbows 

As  do  recruits  when  flinching. 


2l6  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

All  at  once, 

Rounding  a  corner,  we  are  hailed  in  French 
With  cries  for  help.     At  double-quick  we  join 
Our  hard-pressed  comrades.     They  were  grenadiers, 
A  gallant  company  but  beaten  back 
Inglorious  from  the  raised  and  flag-paved  square, 
Fronting  a  convent.     Twenty  sahvart  monks 
Defended  it,  black  demons  with  shaved  crowns. 
The  cross  in  white  embroidered  on  their  frocks, 
Barefoot,  their  sleeves  tucked  up,  their  only  weapons 
Enormous  crucifixes,  so  well  brandished 
Our  men  went  down  before  them.     By  platoons 
Firing  we  swept  the  place  ;  in  fact  we  slaughtered 
This  terrible  group  of  heroes,  no  more  soul 
Being  in  us  than  in  executioners. 
The  foul  deed  clone — deliberately  done — 
And  the  thick  smoke  rolling  away,  we  noted 
Under  the  huddled  masses  of  the  dead, 
Rivulets  of  blood  run  trickling  down  the  steps  ; 
While  in  the  background  solemnly  the  church 
Loomed  up,  its  doors  wide  open.     We  went  in. 
It  was  a  desert.     Lighted  tapers  starred 
The  inner  gloom  with  points  of  gold.     The  incense 
Gave  out  its  perfume.     At  the  upper  end, 
Turned  to  the  altar,  as  though  unconcerned 
In  the  fierce  battle  that  had  raged,  a  priest, 
White-haired  and  tall  of  stature,  to  a  close 
Was  bringing  tranquilly  the  mass.      So  stamped 
Upon  my  memory  is  that  thrilling  scene, 
That,  as  I  speeik,  it  comes  before  me  now — 
The  convent  built  in  old  time  by  the  Moors 
The  huge  brown  corpses  of  the  monks  ;   the  sun 
Making  the  red  blood  on  the  pavement  steam  ; 
And  there,  framed  in  by  the  low  po/ch,  the  priest; 
And  there  the  altar  brilliant  as  a  shrine; 


THE   BENEDICTION,  2  \ ; 

And  here  ourselves,  all  halting,  hesitating. 
Almost  afraid. 

I.  ccrtcs,  in  those  days 

Was  a  confirmed  blasphemer.     'T  is  on  record 
That  once,  by  way  of  sacrilegious  joke, 
A  chapel  being  sacked,  I  lit  my  pipe 
At  a  wax  candle  burning  on  the  altar. 
This  time,  however,  I  was  awed, — so  blanched 
Was  that  old  man  ! 

"Shoot  him  !  "  our  captain  cried. 
Not  a  soul  budged.     The  priest  beyond  all  doubt 
Heard  ;  but,  as  though  he  heard  not,  turning  round, 
He  faced  us  with  the  elevated   Host, 
Having  that  period  of  the  service  reached 
When  on  the  faithful  benediction  falls. 
His  lifted  arms  seemed  as  the  spread  of  wings; 
And  as  he  raised  the  pyx,  and  in  the  air 
With  it  described  the  cross,  each  man  of  us 
Fell  back,  aware  the  priest  no  more  was  trembling 
Than  if  before  him  the  devout  were  ranged. 
But  when,  intoned  with  clear  and  mellow  voice. 
The  words  came  to  us — 

"  /  \>s  (>ciit'(fic<if." 
J^cns  Omnipotent  !  " 

The  captain's  order 

Rang  out  again  and  shaiply.  "  Shout,  him  down. 
(  )r  I  shall  swear  !  "      Then  one  of  ours,  a  dastard. 
Levelled  his  gun  and  fired.      Upstanding  still, 
The  priest  changed  colour,  though  with  steadfast  look- 
Set  upwards,  and  indomitably  stern. 
"  Pater  ft  Fi/ins  !  " 

Came  the  word>.      What  fren/v. 


2l8  A    METRICAL   HISTOKY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

What   maddening  thirst  for  blood,  sent  from  our  ranks 

Another  shot,  I  know  not  ;  but  't  was  done. 

The  monk,  with  one  hand  on  the  altar's  ledge. 

Held  himself  up;  and  strenuous  to  complete 

His  benediction,  in  the  other  raised 

The  consecrated  Host.     For  the  third  time 

Tracing  in  air  the  symbol  of  forgiveness, 

With  eyes  closed,  and  in  tones  exceeding  low, 

But  in  the  general  hush  distinctly  heard, 

"  P.t  Sane  tits  SpiritJis  /  " 

He  said  ;  and  ending 
His  service,  fell  down  dead. 

The  golden  pyx 

Rolled  bounding  on  the  floor.     Then,  as  we  stood, 
Even  the  old  troopers,  with  our  muskets  grounded. 
And  choking  horror  in  our  hearts,  at  sight 
Of  such  a  shameless  murder  and  at  sight 
Of  such  a  martyr, — with  a  chuckling  laugh, 
"  Amen  !  " 

Drawled  out  a  drummer-boy. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

Ox  the  night  of  the  twenty-second  of  January,  1809, 
Napoleon  entered  Paris  on  his  return  from  Spain.  The 
next  day  found  him  hard  at  work,  mastering  the  situa- 
tion in  which  he  found  France.  Another  war  with 
Austria  was  about  to  be  fought.  Four  hundred  thou- 
sand soldiers,  confident  of  their  ability  to  win,  were  in 
full  march  against  him.  Napoleon,  with  his  usual  hercu- 
lean energy  and  activity,  inspired  all  France  by  his  ex- 
ample. Still  hoping  for  peace,  he  made  the  most  gigantic 
preparations  for  wrar.  Every  possible  emergency  was 
provided  against.  But  all  negotiations  for  peace  failed 
and  Austria  determined  to  force  the  fight.  It  was  argued 
by  that  nation  that  the  time  was  propitious  for  success  ; 
that  the  Spanish  campaign  had  weakened  France  by  de- 
manding the  presence  there  of  so  large  a  force  of  veter- 
ans, and  that  Napoleon,  if  he  accepted  the  challenge  to 
combat,  would  be  compelled  to  take  the  held  with  an 
army  of  raw  conscripts,  easy  to  be  beaten  in  the  first 
battle.  Never  was  foe  more  mistaken,  (hi  the  ninth  ot 
April  the  advance  guard  of  the  Austrian  army  crossed 
the  river  Inn,  and  entered  the  territory  of  the  King  of 
Bavaria,  one  of  Napoleon's  allies.  Napoleon  at  Paris 
was  informed  of  this  hostile  act  on  the  evening  of  the 
twelfth,  and  before  midnight  of  that  dav  he  was  on  his 


220  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

way  to  the  seat  of  war  as  rapidly  as  post  horses  could 
carry  him.  On  the  seventeenth  he  was  with  the  army. 
With  not  over  two  hundred  thousand  men,  he  was  about 
to  engage  double  that  number,  with  all  the  advantages 
of  position  in  their  favour.  The  odds  were  terribly 
against  him,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  he  hesitate.  His 
whole  army  was  at  once  set  in  motion,  and  victory  after 
victory  again  perched  upon  its  banners.  At  the  battle 
of  Eckmuhl  the  Austrians  lost  six  thousand  in  dead  and 
wounded  ;  twenty  thousand  prisoners  were  taken  from 
them,  together  with  fifteen  standards  and  the  greater 
part  of  their  artillery.  Defeated  in  every  battle,  they 
endeavoured  to  cover  their  retreat  by  defending  Ratis- 
bon,  but  their  effort  was  a  vain  one.  Marshal  Lanncs 
stormed  the  walls  of  that  city,  and  drove  the  foe  over 
the  Danube  and  out  of  the  territory  of  Bavaria.  It  was 
at  this  place  Napoleon  received  a  slight  wound  in  his 
foot  by  a  spent  ball. 

It  is  hard  to  trace,  to  any  reliable  source,  all  the  varied 
incidents  and  traditions  connected  with  Napoleon's  life, 
but  the  following  has  more  of  the  elements  of  truth  in  it 
than  many  that  pass  current  : 

INCIDENT    OF    THE    FRENCH    CAMP. 

K.ORKRT    ?>Kf>\YMN<;. 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming  dav, 


INCIDENT  OF  THE   FRENCH  CAMP.  221 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  his  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall  " 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

LTntil  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through), 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried   he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace. 

We  've  got  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal  's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you.  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 

Perched   him  !  "      The    chief's    eye   flashed  :     his 
plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 


222  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 

"You  're  wounded!"     "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 
Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 

"  I  'm  killed,  sire !  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


MACDONAU>. 
From  an  engraving  by  Haller,  after  Gumoens. 

Place  and  date  of  publication  unknown. 


WAGRAM  ;  OR,  VICTORY  IN  DEATH. 

AFTER  the  battle  of  Ratisbon,  Napoleon  advanced  di- 
rectly on  Vienna,  and  on  May  tenth,  exactly  one  month 
after  the  Austrians  had  crossed  the  Inn,  he  appeared 
before  the  walls  of  the  capital  and  demanded  its  surren- 
der. His  demand  being  refused,  a  bombardment  at  once 
took  place,  which  lasted  until  the  thirteenth,  when  the 
city  capitulated.  At  the  commencement  of  the  bombard- 
ment the  royal  family  of  Austria  fled  the  city,  leaving 
behind  them,  however,  the  Archduchess  Marie  Louise, 
who  was  confined  to  her  bed  by  sickness.  The  imperial 
palace  being  in  a  direct  line  of  the  fire  of  one  of  the 
French  batteries,  the  shot  and  shell  falling  around  it  threat- 
ened the  life  of  the  Archduchess.  A  flag  of  truce  was 
sent  to  Napoleon  advising  him  of  this  fact,  whereupon  he 
immediately  ordered  the  battery  to  cease  firing  in  that 
direction.  This  was  Napoleon's  first  introduction  to  his 
future  bride,  as  the  sick  Archduchess  in  less  than  a  year 
became  the  wife  of  the  man  who  was  then  storming  her 
father's  home. 

The  battles  of  Aspern  and  Essling,  fought  May  twenty 
first  and  twenty-second,  were  nearly  fatal  to  the  plans  of 
Napoleon.  The  destruction  of  the  bridge  across  the  swol- 
len Danube  cut  his  army  in  t\vo,  and  left  far  too  small 
a  number  across  to  contend  successfully  with  the  powerful 


224  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  A'APOLEON. 

army  of  the  Archduke  Charles  ;  and  the  death  of  Marshal 
Lannes  was  a  serious  loss,  as  it  deprived  the  Emperor  of 
one  of  the  most  fearless,  reliable,  and  gallant  supporters 
he  ever  had.  Napoleon's  genius,  however,  saved  his  army, 
which,  under  his  personal  supervision,  withdrew  in  good 
order  across  the  smaller  arm  of  the  river  to  the  island  of 
Lobau,  where  the  troops  at  once  began  to  prepare  for  the 
awful  struggle  soon  to  take  place.  On  the  night  of  the 
fourth  of  July,  the  French  army  began  its  passage  back 
across  the  Danube,  and  on  the  sixth,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand men,  with  one  thousand  pieces  of  artillery,  fought 
the  famous  battle  of  Wagram.  The  result  was  a  com- 
plete overthrow  of  the  Austrians  and  another  glowing 
victory  for  Napoleon.  It  was  the  charge  of  the  Guard 
under  Macdonald,  that  turned  the  fortune  of  the  day  and 
won  for  that  gallant  soldier  his  Marshal's  baton.  The 
Austrian  empire,  prostrated  in  the  dust,  only  escaped  dis- 
memberment by  yielding  the  hand  of  an  Archduchess  to 
the  Imperial  victor.  Wagram  deservedly  ranks  among  the 
decisive  battles  of  Napoleon's  career.  Had  it  been  lost  to 
the  French,  the  catastrophe  of  Waterloo  might  have  been 
anticipated  in  1809,  an^  the  "Star"  of  Napoleon  have 
sunk  forever  on  the  shores  of  the  Danube. 

WAGRAM;    OK,  VICTORY    IX  DEATH. 

ANON. 

I  saw  a  sunrise  on  a  battle-field. — 
E'en  at  that  early  hour  the  gladsome  beams 
Broke  upon  smoke-wreaths  and  the  roar  of  war  ; 
And  o'er  the  dewy  grass  rush'd  hurrying  feet, — 


IVAGRAM  ;    OR,    VICTORY  IN  DEATH.  225 

Austria's  white  uniforms  sweeping  to  the  charge, 
While  France's  eagles  trembled  in  the  gale. 
—Full  'gainst  the  Gallic  left,  not  half  array 'd, 
The  Austrian  horse  are  charging  home  ;  and  foot 
And  cannon  follow  fast,  quick-belching  forth 
Their  thunders.     Troop  on  troop,  amidst  the  smoke, 
Napoleon  sees  them  sweeping  between  him 
And  the  broad  Danube  ;  and  their  loud  hurrahs, 
Heard  o'er  the  din  of  battle,  tell  how  nigh 
They  come  upon  his  rear,  and  threat  with  fire 
The  floating  bridge  that  brought  his  troops  across. 
Already  stragglers  flying  from  the  charge, 
Are  seen,  and  baggage-waggons  with  their  startled  team. 
Scampering  in  hot  haste  for  the  river's  bank. 

But  in  the  centre,  where  the  Old  Guard  stands 

Like  serried  granite  'ncath  the  enemies'  fire, 

Paces  "  the  Emperor"  to  and  fro,  in  front 

Of  the  tall  bearskin  shakos, — where  the  shot 

And  shell  of  Austria's  cannon  make  huge  gaps. 

Courier  on  courier,  breathless  spurring  up, 

Bring  him  untoward  tidings  of  the  fight. 

Vet  in  a  marble  calm,  as  if  tio  turn 

Of  Fortune's  wheel  could  shake  his  clear-eyed  soul, 

He  paces  steadily  that  storm-swept  spot, 

Rooting  by  his  example  to  their  place 

His  vext  brigades,  now  mustering  dense  and   fast 

For  the  bold  game  on  which  his  soul  is  set. 

"  Massena  !  keep  the  Archduke's  right  in  check  : 

Roll  it  but  backward  from  the  bridge  apace, 

And  the  day  yet  is  ours."      But  still  his  ear 

Dreads  every  moment  on  his  right  to  hear 

The  thundering  of  the  Archduke's  brother's  horse, 

The  vanguard  of  the  host  on  march  from  Rhab. 

Charging  with  freshness  on  his  press'd  array. 


226  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON, 

At  last  the  moment  comes, — the  word  is  given,— 
The  Emperor's  self,  as  past  his  squadrons  rush, 
Down-bending  o'er  their  chargers  in  hot  haste, 
Stabbing  the  air,  cries  out,  "  Give  point  !  give  point  ! 
And  on  sweep  cuirassiers,  hussars,  and  all, 
Spurring,  and  thundering  their  "  Vive  1'  Empereur  !  " 
Rank  after  rank  bright-flashing  in  the  sun 
Like  brazen  waves  of  battle, — charging  on 
Right  into  smoke  of  th'  enemies'  batteries. 
—Roar  upon  roar,  and  flash  upon  flash,  break  out 
Like  a  volcano  bursting, — a  red  chaos  glares  ; — 
And  back  they  come,  the  routed  horse,  pell-mell, 
Gnashing  their  teeth  in  fury  at  defeat ; 
Rallying  with  dinted  helms  and  batter'd  mail, 
Again  to  plunge  into  the  thick  of  fight. 
And  still  the  saddles  empty,  and  scared  steeds 
Rush  backwards  riderless  ;  and  with  oaths  and  cries 
Again  a  broken  flood  of  horse  o'erspreads  the  plain. 

''  Macdonald  !  take  the  Guards,  and  lead  them  on. 
The  Plateau  must  be  won  !  "    And  through  the  mass 
Of  flyers  straight  the  serried  column  moves, 
And  the  war  storms  anew.     Right  on  they  go, 
Like  men  who  hold  life  as  a  bagatelle, — 
Up  the  brief  slope,  and  in  among  the  guns, 
Giving  and  taking  death, — yet  still  advancing, 
Pushing  their  way  with  shot  and  bayonet-thrust 
Amidst  the  foe,  who  round  them  like  a  wall 
In  front  and  on  each  flank  hang  dense  ;  and  still 
The  cannon  thunder  on  the  advancing  band. — 
Oh,  then  there  was  grim  conflict  !  and  the  ranks 
Of  the  French  column  melted  fast  away 
In  the  unequal  strife;   and  oft  their  chief 
Sends  word  for  help,  and  hears  no  help  can  come, — 
And  that  he  must  eo  on.      "  Go  on  :   the  clav 


WAGRAM  ;    OA\    VICTORY  IN   DEATH.  22~ 

Hangs  on  your  sword  !  "      And  on  they  went  in  sooth. 

And  as  the  hostile  fire,  or  want  of  breath, 

Or  the  re-forming  of  their  shatter'd  line, 

Brings  to  a  halt  that  foe-encompass'd  band, 

Nigh  ruin'd  by  success,  the  Imperial  Voice 

Still  sends  them  for  sole  word  :  "  No  aid — Go  on  !  " 

'T  was  a  brave,  bitter  sight !    Blacken'd  and  scorch'd, 
Circled  with  fire  and  thunder,  and  the  shouts 
Of  a  most  maddening  war,  where  each  man  knows 
Ruin  or  victory  is  in  the  scales, 
Hewing  their  way,  each  step  o'er  fallen  foes, 
That  Column  marches  on.     On  over  guns 
Dismounted,  and  rent  banners,  and  the  wreck 
Of  war's  magnificence, — with  blood-stain'd  step, 
O'er  brothers,  kinsmen,  comrades  dropping  fast, 
With  clenched  teeth  and  flashing  eyes  they  press, 
Panting,  fainting,  dwindling  'neath  the  fire  ; 
Yet  back — and  back — and  back  compelling  still 
The  focmen  to  give  ground.     Oh  !  sure 
In  that  fell  strife,  with  all  its  wasted  wealth. 
And  wasted  lives,  and  broken  hopes,  and  hearts 
Bleeding  in  far-off  homes,  and  fever'd  cries 
Of  mangled  myriads, — there  's  enough  of  woe 
To  glut  Ambition  for  a  thousand  years  ! 

I  saw  the  sun  set  on  that  battle-field.  — 
A  remnant  of  that  Column,  paused  at  last 
On  ground  shot-furrowed,  all  begrimed  and  scorch'd 
Like  men  escaped  from  out  a  crater's  mouth, 
Lean  wearily  on  their  arms.      The  clarion's  call 
Is  pealing  through  the  air  ot  Victory  ! 
Anil  banners  wave,  and  the  bright  setting  sun 
Streams  o'er  the  armed  field,  from  whence  arose 
The  exultant  music  of  a  hundred  bands, 


'228  A    METRICAL   HTSTOKY   OF  NAPOLEON. 


Making  war  glorious.     But  no  paean  comes 
From  that  lone  Victor-Column.     They  have  fought 
And  won, — but  won  at  what  a  cost  !     They  have 
No  heart  or  breath  for  triumph  :  so  they  stand, 
And  hear  but  join  not  in  the  loud  acclaim, — 
Sad,  mute,  erect.     'T  was  Victory  in  Death  ! 


SCHILL. 

IN  consequence  of  the  victory  won  at  Wagram,  an 
armistice  was  at  once  entered  into  between  the  French 
and  Austrian  armies,  and  on  the  fourteenth  of  October, 
I £09,  a  treaty  of  peace  was  concluded  at  Vienna,  between 
Napoleon  and  Francis  II.  In  the  meantime,  while  Aus- 
tria was  being  crushed  beneath  the  juggernaut  of  Napo- 
leon's genius,  Prussia  was  not  resting  at  all  easy  under 
the  galling  chains  in  which  this  same  colossal  power  had 
bound  her.  The  king,  timid  and  irresolute,  dared  not 
make  a  move  towards  freeing  his  country  from  the  yoke 
of  the  oppressor,  but  the  people  were  in  revolt  against 
the  hated  Napoleon,  and  the  queen  and  her  party  were 
ever  ready  to  try  the  issue  of  battle  once  more.  The 
leaven  which  was  to  work  destruction  to  the  "  perfidious 
invader  "  was  making  itself  felt  throughout  all  Germany. 
Major  Scliill,  commanding  a  regiment  at  Berlin,  was 
heart  and  soul  for  the  queen  and  his  beloved  fatherland, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Prussia  and  France 
were  at  peace,  he  determined,  wholly  on  his  own  respon- 
sibility, to  make  a  bold  attempt  to  arouse  Prussia  and  to 
force  his  king  into  a  declaration  of  war.  On  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  March,  1809,  he  rode  out  of  Berlin,  at  the  head 
of  his  hussars,  on  that  ride  from  which  he  never  was  to 
return.  There  could  be  but  one  result  to  this  brave. 

22(J 


230  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

but  foolish  enterprise,  and  that  was  complete  failure. 
Schill's  career  was  a  short  but  brilliant  one.  The  end 
came  at  Stralsund,  on  the  thirty-first  of  May,  where  he 
died,  gallantly  leading  his  men  against  his  country's  foes. 

sen  ILL. 

ERNEST  MORITZ  AR\I<T. 

Who  bursts  from  Berlin,  with  his  sabre  in  hand  ? 

Who  ride  at  his  heel,  like  the  rush  of  the  wave  ? 
They  are  warriors  of  Prussia,  the  flower  of  the  land. 

And    't  is   Schill    leads   them    on,  to   renown — and   the 
grave  ! 

Six  hundred  hussars,  in  their  pomp  and  their  pride  ! 

Their  chargers  are  fleet,  and  their  bosoms  are  bold  ; 
And  deep  shall  that  sabre  in  vengeance  be  dyed, 

Ere  those  chargers  shall  halt,  or  those  bosoms  be  cold. 

Then  the  yager  in  green,  and  the  dark  musqueteer, 
By  thousands  they  rose,  at  the  bidding  of  one  ; 

Then  galloped  the  hunters,  no  hunters  of  deer, 
And  Prussia  rejoiced  that  the  chase  was  begun. 

What  summoned  this  spirit  of  grandeur  from  gloom  .' 
Was  he  called   from   the   camp,  was  he  sent   from   the 
throne  ? 

'T  was  the  voice  of  his  country,  it  came  from  her  tomb  ; 
And  it  rises  to  honour  him  now  that  lie  's  gone  ! 

Remember  him,  Dodendorff  !   whirlwind  and  rain 

Bleach   the   bones   of   the    Frenchmen   that   fell   by    his 
blade  ; 

At  sunset  they  saw  its  first  flash  on  thy  plain  ; 

At  midnight  three  thousand  were  still  as  thv  shade. 


SCH1LL.  231 

Then,  Domitz  !  thy  ramparts  were  flooded  with  gore. 

No  longer  a  hold  for  the  tyrant  and  slave. 
But,  Prussia,  the  day  of  thy  glory  was  o'er  ! 

And  to  Pommcrn  he  rushed,  to  renown  and  the  grave. 

Fly,  slaves  of  Napoleon,  for  vengeance  is  come ! 

Now  plunge  in  the  earth,  now  escape  on  the  wind  ; 
With  the  heart  of  the  vulture,  now  borrow  its  plume. 

For  Schill  and  his  riders  are  thundering  behind. 

All  gallant  and  gay  they  came  in  at  the  gate, 

Where  Wallenstein's  banner  once  waved  in  its  pride  ; 

A  king  in  his  spirit,  a  king  in  his  state, 

Though  now  his  dark  tomb  but  o'ershadows  the  tide. 

Then  dashed  the  hussar,  like  a  storm,  on  the  foe. 

And  the  trench  and  the  street  were  a  field  and  a  grave  : 
For  the  sorrows  of  Prussia  gave  weight  to  the  blow. 

And  the  slave  of  Napoleon  was  crush'd  like  a  slave. 

()  Schill — O  Schill  !  thou  warrior  of  fame  ! 

To  the  field,  to  the  field  spur  thy  charger  again  ; 
Why  bury  in  ramparts  and  fosses  the  flame 

That    should    blaze    upon    mountain,   and    forest,    and 
plain  ! 

Stralsund  was  his  sepulchre,  city  <>f  woe  ! 

No  more  on  thy  ramparts  his  banner  shall  wave  : 
The  bullet  was  sent,  and  the  warrior  lies  low, 

And  the  dastard  may  trample  the  dust  of  the  brave  ' 

He  was  plunged  in  the  grave  without  trumpet  or  toll, 
No  prayer  of  his  warriors  was  heard  on  the  wind  ; 

No  peal  of  the  cannon,  no  drum's  muffled  roll, 

Told  the  love  ami  the  sorrow  that  lingered  behind. 


232  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

They  cut  off  his  head  ;  but  his  triumph  is  won, 

And  the  love  of  his  country  shall  weep  o'er  his  bier  ; 

And  her  high-hearted  sons,  from  the  cot  to  the  throne, 
Shall  honour  the  dust  of  the  chief  that  lies  here! 

When  the  fight  is  begun,  and  the  Prussian  hussar 
Comes  down,  like  a  cataract  burst  from  its  hill  ; 

Thy  glory  shall  flash  thro'  the  storm  like  a  star, 

And    his    watchword    of    vengeance    be,    Schill,   brave 
Schill ! 


ANDREW   HOFKR. 

BY  the  terms  of  the  treaty  of  Presburg,  in  1806,  the 
Tyrol  was  taken  from  Austria  and  given  to  Bavaria,  an 
ally  of  France.  In  April,  1809,  a*  ^le  ca^  °f  tne  Archduke 
John  of  Austria,  the  Tyrolesc  arose  in  rebellion  against 
the  Bavarian  Government.  Andrew  Hofer,  the  landlord 
of  a  village  inn,  became  one  of  the  heroes  of  that  insur- 
rection, and  he  was  finally  elected  commandcr-in-chief  of 
the  Tyrolean  army.  As  Schill  fought  in  Germain-  for 
freedom,  so  did  Hofer  fight  among  the  mountain-passes 
of  his  native  country.  It  was  liberty  or  death  with  him. 
After  Austria  had  been  beaten  at  \Yagram  and  the  peace 
of  Vienna  had  been  signed,  and  there  was  no  possible 
chance  for  his  making  headway  against  the  might}-  power 
of  the  French  conqueror,  this  patriot  struggled  on,  de- 
serted by  Austria  and  by  his  own  troops.  In  the  end  he 
was  captured,  taken  as  a  prisoner  to  Mantua,  and  there 
tried  bv  court  marshal  ami  shot. 


At  Mantua  in  chains 

The  gallant  Hofer  lay. 
In  Mantua  to  death 

Led  him  the  fee  away  : 
His  brothers'  hearts  bled  for  the  chiet. 


234  ^    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

For  Germany,  disgrace  and  grief, 
And  Tyrol's  mountain-land  ! 

His  hands  behind  him  clasped, 
With  firm  and  measured  pace, 

Marched  Andrew  Hofer  on  ; 
He  feared  not  death  to  face, 

Death  \vhom  from  Iselberg  aloft 

Into  the  vale  he  sent  so  oft 
In  Tyrol's  holy  land. 

But  when  from  dungeon-grate, 

In  Mantua's  stronghold, 
Their  hands  on  high  he  saw 

His  faithful  brothers  hold, 
"  O  God,  be  with  you  all !  "  he  said, 
"And  with  the  German  realm  betrayed, 

And  Tyrol's  holy  land  !  " 

The  drummer's  hand  refused 
To  beat  the  solemn  march, 
While  Andrew  Hofer  passed 

The  portal's  gloomy  arch  ; 
In  fetters  shackled,  yet  so  free. 
There  on  the  bastion  stood  he, 

Brave  Tyrol's  gallant  son. 

They  bade  him  then  kneel  down. 
He  answered,  "  I  will  not  ! 

Here  standing  will  I  die, 

As  I  have  stood  and  fought, 

As  now  I  tread  this  bulwark's  bank, 

Long  life  to  my  good  Kaiser  Frank, 
.And,  Tvrol,  hail  to  thee  !  " 


ANDREW  HOFEK,  235 

A  grenadier  then  took 

The  bandage  from  his  hand, 
While  Hofer  spake  a  prayer, 

His  last  on  earthly  land. 

"  Mark  well !  "  he  with  loud  voice  exclaimed, 
"  Now  fire  !    Ah  !    't  was  badly  aimed  ! 

O  Tyrol,  fare  thee  well  !  "' 


TALAVERA. 

WHILE  Napoleon  was  winning  victory  after  victory 
against  Austria  and  the  coalition  in  the  north,  everything 
was  going  wrong  in  the  Peninsula.  Joseph  Bonaparte  was 
In  no  sense  a  soldier.  The  art  of  war  was  a  mystery  to 
him,  and  of  its  wants  and  necessities  he  knew  nothing. 
So  little  confidence  had  the  marshals,  sent  by  Napoleon 
to  fight  his  battles  in  Spain  and  Portugual,  in  the  military 
operations  of  Joseph  that  they  paid  no  attention  to  his 
orders  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  seemed  to  think  that  it  was 
proper  to  act  each  for  himself,  totally  disregarding  the 
good  of  the  service,  and  the  commands  of  the  king. 
Personal  comfort  and  aggrandisement  were  sought  after. 
Spite  and  jealousy  prevailed  among  these  veteran  gen- 
erals like  among  a  band  of  schoolboys.  There  was  no 
concert  of  action  ;  no  willing  aid  lent  each  other.  The 
whole  campaign  went  wrong  from  beginning  to  end. 
The  French  soldiers  fought  with  their  accustomed  brav- 
ery;  but,  with  quarrelsome  leaders,  against  British  valour 
and  guerrilla  warfare,  their  efforts  were  unavailing.  The 
battle  of  Talavera,  fought  the  twenty-eight  of  July,  1809, 
resulted  in  a  defeat  of  the  French  army,  and  a  most  sig- 
nal victory  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  then  Sir  Arthur 
Wellcsley.  Alternate  victory  and  defeat  attended  until 
the  twenty-first  of  June,  1813,  when  Napoleon's  enter- 
prise in  Spain  met  its  Waterloo  at  the  battle  of  Vittoria. 

236 


TALA  VERA.  237 

TALAVKKA. 

I.OKI)   HVKoN. 

Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain  !  awake  !  advance  ! 

Lo  !  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries  ; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 

Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies  : 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies, 

And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar  ! 
In  every  peal  she  calls,  "  Awake  !  arise  !" 

Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 
When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore  ? 


Hark!  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note? 

Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote  ; 

Nor  saved  your  brethern  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 

The  bale-fires  flash  on  high  :  from  rock  to  rock 
Kach  volley  tells  that  thousand  cease  to  breathe  ; 

Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 


Lo !  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands. 

Mis  blood-red  tresses  deepening  in  the  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowering  in  his  fiery  hands, 

And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon  ! 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fixed,  and  now  anon 

Flashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done  ; 

For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet, 
O  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet. 


238  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 

(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there") 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mixed  embroidery, 

Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rose  them  from  their  lair. 

And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey  ! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share  : 

The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice  ; 

Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high  ; 

Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  : 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory  ! 

The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 

That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 

Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die- 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilise  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

There  shall  they  rot, — Ambition's  honoured  fools  ! 

Yes,  honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ! 
Vain  Sophistry  !  in  these  behold  the  tools. 

The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 

With  human  hearts — to  what  ? — a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 

Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  ? 


LAMENT  OF  JOSEPHINE. 

IT  was  in  1806,  while  Napoleon  and  Talleyrand  were 
holding  midnight  conferences  at  Fontainebleau  concern- 
ing the  secret  part  of  the  treaty  of  Tilsit,  that  Fouche, 
not  knowing  what  was  going  on,  but  wrongly  suspecting 
the  subject  of  the  meetings  to  be  the  divorce  of  Josephine, 
determined  to  bring  about  that  result,  and  so  gain  credit 
to  himself.  He  went  to  Josephine,  and,  enlarging  upon 
the  interests  of  France,  which  called  for  a  successor  to 
the  Emperor,  and  the  glory  which  would  redound  to  her, 
he  succeeded  in  gaining  her  permission  to  draft  a  letter 
from  her  to  the  President  of  the  Senate  offering  to  relin- 
guish  her  position  as  Empress  and  wife.  She  was  to  sign 
the  letter  the  next  morning;  but  Madame  de  Remusat. 
being  informed  of  what  was  going  on,  and  not  wishing  to 
give  up  her  position  under  the  Empress,  determined  to 
advise  Napoleon  of  what  had  taken  place.  She  waited 
that  night  until  the  Emperor  had  left  his  Cabinet  to  go 
to  bed,  which  was  at  one  o'clock.  She  demanded  an 
audience,  but,  being  a  young  and  a  beautiful  woman  and 
the  hour  being  unseemly,  was  refused.  She  persisted  in 
her  request,  and  insisted  so  strongly  that  her  business  was 
of  the  utmost  importance,  that  she  was  admitted  as 
Napoleon  was  about  to  retire.  She  told  the  story  in  all 
its  details,  and  Napoleon,  thanking  her,  went  at  once  to 


240  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEOX. 

Josephine  and  told  her  there  was  no  truth  in  the  story, 
and  he  promised  her  that  if  reasons  of  state  ever  de- 
manded a  divorce,  he  himself  would  be  the  first  to  tell 
her  ;  which  he  did,  when  the  time  came. 

Napoleon's  first  serious  mistake  was  his  interference  in 
Spanish  affairs;  his  second  was  his  divorce  from  Joseph- 
ine. The  only  excuse  he  ever  gave  for  it — the  welfare  of 
France — was  a  weak  one,  and  one  devoid  of  all  merit. 
In  after  years,  shorn  of  his  power  and  wasting  his  life 
away  as  a  captive  in  the  hands  of  an  unrelenting  foe,  he 
acknowledged  his  act  of  injustice  and  admitted  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  which  left  for  him  thereafter  only  defeat, 
humiliation,  and  sorrow.  The  true  reason  for  the  divorce 
was  Napoleon's  instinct  of  approaching  weakness.  He 
felt  that  the  mighty  empire  he  had  reared  was  carrying 
the  utmost  weight  it  could  bear  and  that  any  more  drain 
upon  its  resources  would  cause  it  to  tumble  to  the  ground. 
He,  therefore,  sought  to  strengthen  himself  by  an  alliance 
with  some  one  of  the  great  powers  of  Europe  most  to  be 
feared.  Russia  was  first  asked  to  bolster  up  his  cause 
with  the  hand  of  the  Emperor's  sister.  Alexander  was 
willing  to  grant  the  request  made,  but  his  mother  refused, 
and  she  gained  the  day.  Austria,  with  the  smoke  of  Wag- 
ram  still  in  her  eyes,  saw  less  clearly  the  result,  and  upon 
being  asked,  consented  to  furnish  the  bride.  On  the  six- 
teenth of  December,  1809,  Josephine  was  banished  to  Mal- 
maison  with  the  title  of  Empress,  and  on  the  second  of 
April,  1810,  Marie  Louise,  Archduchess  of  Austria,  took 
her  place  in  the  Tuileries. 


LAMENT  OP  yO.VA/V/AVA\  24  I 

LAMKXT  OF  JOSKPHINK. 

MAKV  K.  I  \\-.\\i  11. 

The  Empress  ! — what  's  to  me  the  empty  name  ! 

This  regal  state — this  glittering  pageant-life  ? 
A  tinsell'd  cheat  ! — Am  I  not  crovvn'd  with  shame? 

Shorn  of  my  glorious  name,  Napoleon's  Wife  ! 
Set  with  a  bauble  here  to  play  my  part. 
And  shroud  with  veil  of  pomp  my  breaking  heart. 

'T  is  mockery  !  —  thought  is  with  the  days  ere  thou, 
Seeking  the  world's  love,  unto  mine  grew  cold— 

Ere  yet  the  diadem  entwined  my  brow, 

Tightening  around  my  brain  its  serpent  fold — 

When  each  quick  life-pulse  throbbed,  unschool'd  of  art, 

When  my  wide  empire  was  Napoleon's  heart  ! 

My  spirit  quails  before  this  loneliness- 
Why  did  no  warning  thought  within  me  rise, 

Telling  thy  hand  would  stay  its  fond  caress 
To  wreathe  the  victim  for  the  sacrifice  ! 

That  joy,  the  dove  so  to  my  bosom  prest. 

Would  change  to  this  keen  vulture  at  my  breast  ! 

Parted  forever! — who  hath  dared  make  twain 

Those  He  hath  join'd  ?---  the  nation's  mighty  voice  ! 

And  thou  hast  bounded  forward  from  my  chain. 
Like  the  freed  captive,      therefore,  heart  !   rejoice 

Above  the  ashes  of  my  hopes,  that  he 

Hath  o'er  their  ruin  leapt  to  liberty  ! 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE    MOTHER. 

TFIK  birth  of  Napoleon's  son,  which  took  place  on  the 
twentieth  day  of  March,  i8ii,was  the  occasion  for  the 
wildest  enthusiasm  in  Paris  and  throughout  FYance,  and 
no  doubt  the  proudest  moment  in  the  great  Emperor's 
life  was  when  he  appeared  before  the  assembled  crowd  of 
awaiting  courtiers,  holding  in  his  arms  his  infant  heir, 
whom  he  introduced  as  the  King  of  Rome.  What  hopes 
and  ambitions  must  have  filled  his  breast,  and  how  cruelly 
were  father  and  son  to  be  disappointed,  and  what  a  fall 
both  were  to  experience  so  near  in  the  future  !  From 
the  height  of  his  ambition  to  the  deepest  depth  of  humilia- 
tion for  the  father:  from  the  Imperial  throne  to  the  rank 
of  a  subject  to  a  foreign  nation  for  the  son. 

The  following  incident,  is  doubtless,  based  upon  the 
one  related  by  Madame  Junot  in  her  memoirs;  the  only 
difference  being  that  Napoleon's  son  was  in  reality  be- 
tween two  and  three  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  the  oc- 
currence, and  that  the  petitioner  was  a  young  widow  with 
her  little  boy  by  her  side,  asking  a  pension  for  the  loss  of 
her  husband  shortly  before  killed  in  Spain.  The  petition 
was  actually  placed  in  the  King  of  Rome's  hands  and  by 
him  taken  to  the  Emperor,  who  immediately  granted  the 
pension  asked  for,  saying  that  it  was  his  majesty  the  King 
of  Rome  who  gave  it. 

-4- 


NAPOLEON,  AND  THE   MOTHER.  243 

NAPOLEON    AM)    T1IK    MOTHER. 

EDWARD  J.  O'REILLY. 
A  mother  paced  the  Tuilerics 

With  hopes  as  changeful  as  a  wave, 
And  wildly  prayed,  on  bended  knees. 

Napoleon,  her  son  to  save  ! 
The  cruel  conscript  claimed  his  arm. 

And  made  the  widow  desolate  : 
And  now,  she  deemed  her  words  might  charm 

A  king,  to  change  his  martial  fate  ! 

Within  her  trembling  hand,  she  bore 

A  missive  to  the  "  King  of   Rome  ' 
A  child  to  whom  three  days  before. 

The  light  of  earth  had  been  unknown. 
'T  was  soiled  :  the  ink,  with  tear-drops  stored, 

Grew  pallid  with  the  grief  it  spoke, 
But  shone  more  bright,  when  it  implored 

The  "  King"  to  break  the  soldier's  yoke  ! 

The  Emperor,  his  royal  sire, 

Then  read  it  to  the  cradled  king. 
And  knelt  to  hear  with  feigned  desire. 
The  words  his  majesty  would  bring! 
Then,  turning  to  the  mother  there. 

Napoleon,  with  joy  replied  : 
"  The  King  in  silence  heard  your  prayer. 

And  silence  is  consent,  implied  ! 

Such  deeds,  like  some  bright  stranger  stars 

Which  light  a  drearv  winter's  eve, 
Throughout  Napoleon's  ruthless  wars, 

Their  saving  rays  of  glory  leave! 
And,  through  his  carnage,  blond,  and  strife— 

Amidst  his  smiles  above  the  slain  — 
Thev  tell  us  of  that  purer  life 

Which  bared  his  breast  to  pity's  reign  ! 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  MASSENA,  OR  THE  PROPHET 
MISTAKEN. 

ONE  of  Napoleon's  mistakes  in  carrying  on  the  war 
in  the  Peninsula  was  his  persistent  underrating  of  the 
magnitude  and  difficulty  of  the  task  assigned  to  his  lieu- 
tenants. He  thought  his  presence  in  the  field  wholly 
unnecessary,  and  that  he  could  remain  in  Paris  and  suc- 
cessfully direct  a  campaign,  which  in  its  every  feature 
was  totally  different  from  any  theretofore  engaged  in  by 
him.  When  Massena,  who  was  probably  the  best  soldier 
he  had,  was  sent  to  the  front  with  his  army  of  veterans 
and  directed  to  drive  Wellington  into  the  sea,  it  was 
taken  for  granted  that  the  campaign  would  be  a  short 
one,  and  that  Lisbon  would  soon  be  in  the  Marshal's  pos- 
session and  the  English  army  on  its  way  home,  completely 
routed.  The  result  proved  how  easy  it  is  to  plan  a  cam- 
paign away  from  the  field  of  operation,  and  how  difficult 
it  is  to  have  others  carry  it  out,  especially  when  such 
obstacles  arc  met  with  as  Wellington  placed  in  the  way  of 
the  Prince  of  Essling.  The  "  spoiled  child  of  victory  " 
was  compelled  to  admit  that  fate  was  no  longer  kind  to 
him,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  history,  he  ordered  a  re- 
treat. The  English  writers  at  once  took  advantage  of  the 
Marshal's  misfortune  and  greatly  did  they  exult  therein. 

244 


MASSENA. 
From  an  engraving  by  Fiesinger.  after  Bonne-maison. 

Paris,   1801. 


THE   I-'  LIGHT  Of  MA  SSI:  A'  A.  245 

THE  H.IOHT  OF   MASSEXA  !    OR  TIIK   PKOPHKT  MISTAKKX. 


"  Go,"  said  the  Tyrant  swell'd  with  pride, 
"  Drive  Wellington  into  the  tide, 
And,  Prince  of  Essling,  I  decree 
Tliat  Lusitania  thine  shall  be." 

The  Prince  of  Essling  made  his  bow— 
Thank'd  his  kind  master  —  pledg'd  his  vow 
To  die,  or  do  the  doughty  deed- 
Then  vaulted  on  his  warrior  steed. 

Full  fourscore  thousand  veterans  form 
The  columns  of  his  chosen  swarm  ; 
A  well-train'd,  desperate,  hardy  brood. 
Inured  to  scenes  of  death  and  blood- 
True  dogs  of  war,  by  rapine  fed, 
And  to  compassion's  dictates  dead. 

Onward  they  march  with  awful  sweep 
O'er  fruitful  drll  and  rugged  steep, 
Leaving  behind  them  as  thev  go 

o  -      o 

A  frightful  waste  of  want  and  woe. 
(  )nward  they  urge  their  vengeful  way 
To  where  the  boast  of  Britain  lay  - 
Dreaming  of  nothing  but  sttcce>s, 
Against  the  British  van  they  press  : 
But  at  Busaco's  bloody  height 
Their  haste  was  check'd  by  British  might. 
Here  victory  fir-4,  that  long  had  Miiil'd. 
Began  to  frou  n  on  her  sp»i:'d  chiM. 
And  seem'd  to  cry.  "  Adu  u  !    adieu  ! 
Proud  Massena,  I  '\  e  clone  \\ith  you  : 
My  f.u'ours  henceforth   1  'il  bestow 
(For  he  deserves  them)  on  \'our  I-"oe  ! 


246  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLKOX. 

Nay  look  not,  my  old  pet,  so  gruff, 
I  find  I  Ye  spoil'd  you  long  enough  — 
A  crown  is  a  precarious  thing— 
I  never  meant  you  for  a — king- 
Take  my  advice,  return  to  France- 
You  '11  rue  your  trip  if  you  advance." 
As  on  his  ear  her  accents  rung; 

O    ' 

His  grim  soul  winced,  to  madness  stung; 
Yet,  maugre  menace  of  mischance. 
Boldly  resolv'd  he  to  advance  : 
For  still  before  his  gloating  eyes, 
Glitter'd  ambition's  promis'd  prize — 
"  Drive  Wellington  into  the  sea, 
And  Lusitania  thine  shall  be." 

Meanwhile  sagacious  Wellington, 
Undazzled  by  his  triumph  won, 
Resolv'd  to  quit  his  laurell'd  seat., 
And  seek  a  more  secure  retreat. 
Where  he  his  far  out-numbering  foes 
Might  with  less  risk  of  loss  oppose. 

More  circumspection  taught  to  use, 
His  track  the  fierce  French  Chief  pursues, 
Till  on  his  view  the  grandeur  shines 
Of  Mafra's  strong  embattled  lines  ; 
The  mighty  bar,  whose  lofty  length 
Marr'd  all  his  hopes,  mock'cl  all  his  strength. 

Here,  like  some  gaunt  wolf,  baulk'd  of  food, 
The  baffled  Warrior,  growling,  stood 

o  o  7 

Manoeuvring,  threat'ning,  ail  in  vain, 
Fhro'  winter's  cold  inclement  reign. 
Fatigu'd,  dishearten'd,  held  at  bay, 
His  troops  disease,  and  famine's  prey. 
At  length  he  on  a  stated  night, 
In  doleful  dumps,  betook  to  flight, 


THE    FLIGHT  Ol'  MASSKXA.  2.\J 

And  left  behind  his  high  renown, 
And  lost  (O  sad  !  )  his  promis'd  crown. 

Mistaken  C—  BB— TT  !   lack-a-day  ! 
The  confident  has  run  away, 
And  left  another  wreath  of  glory, 
To  deck  "  Lord  Talavera's  "  story  ! 


INSCRIPTION    FOR    THE    LINES    OF    TORRES 
VEDRAS. 

IN  the  spring  of  1810  the  French  army  in  the  Penin- 
sula numbered  about  three  hundred  thousand.  Napo- 
leon had  thought  to  take  command  in  person,  but  the 
divorce,  his  marriage  with  Marie  Louise,  and  the  cares 
of  the  empire  prevented  him  from  carrying  out  his  pur- 
pose. He  certainly  made  a  mistake  in  not  being  with 
his  army.  The  quarrels  and  jealousies  existing  between 
his  marshals  rendered  his  presence  positively  necessary, 
if  success  was  to  be  obtained.  England  kept  up  a  bitter 
and  a  most  determined  struggle,  and  Wellington  in  plan- 
ning and  executing  the  Lines  of  Torres  Vedras,  laid  the 
foundation  for  the  defeat  and  the  expulsion  of  French 
arms  from  the  Peninsula.  The  Lines  of  Tou-es  Vedras 
were  a  vast  system  of  formidable  defences  erected  be- 
tween the  ocean  and  the  Tagus  in  front  of  Lisbon. 
Wellington  is  said  to  have  remarked  that  behind  these 
fortifications  he  "  deposited  the  independence  of  Por- 
tugal and  even  of  Spain."  It  was  here  Massena  met 
the  obstacle  which  prevented  his  advance  upon  Lisbon, 
ami  which  eventually  compelled  him  to  withdraw  his 
entire  army  from  Portugal. 

INSCRIPTION     1  MR    TIIK     LINKS    OF    TORRKS    YKDRAS. 

RoHI-.K  I     S(>!   THK'i  . 

Through  all  Iberia,  from  the  Atlantic  shores 
To  far  Pyrene,  Wellington  hath  left 
248 


THE  LINES  OF  TORRES  VEDKAS,  24' > 

His  trophies  ;  but  no  monument  records 

To  after-time  a  more  enduring  praise 

Than  this  which  marks  his  triumph  here  attained 

By  intellect,  and  patience  to  the  end 

Holding  through  good  and  ill  its  course  assigned, 

The  stamp  and  seal  of  greatness.     Here  the  chief 

Perceived  in  foresight  Lisbon's  sure  defence, 

A  vantage-ground  for  all  reverse  prepared, 

Where  Portugal  and  England  might  defy 

All  strength  of  hostile  numbers.     Not  for  this 

Of  hostile  enterprise  did  he  abate, 

Or  gallant  purpose  :  witness  the  proud  day 

Which  saw  Soult's  murderous  host  from  Porto  driven  ; 

Bear  witness,  Talavera,  made  by  him 

Famous  forever ;  and  that  later  fight 

When  from  Busaco's  solitude  the  birds. 

Then  first  affrighted  in  their  sanctuary. 

Fled  from  the  thunders  and  the  fires  of  war. 

But  when  Spain's  feeble  counsels,  in  delay 

As  erring  as  in  action  premature, 

Had  left  him  in  the  field  without  support. 

And  Bonaparte,  having  trampled  down 

The  strength  and  pride  of  Austria,  this  way  turned 

His  single  thought  and  undivided  power. 

Retreating  hither  the  great  general  came  ; 

And  proud  Massena,  when  the  boastful  chief 

Of  plundered  Lisbon  dreamt,  here  found  himself 

Stopped  suddenly  in  his  presumptuous  course. 

From  Lriceyra  on  the  western  sea, 

By  Mafra's  princely  convent,  and  the  heights 

Of  Montichique,  and  Bucellas  famed 

For  generous  vines,  the  formidable  works 

Extending,  rested  on  the  guarded  shores 

Of  Tagus,  that  rich  river  who  received 

Into  his  ample  and  rejoicing  port 


250  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

The  harvests  and  the  wealth  of  distant  lands, 

Secure,  insulting  with  the  grand  display 

The  robber's  greedy  sight.     Five  months  the  foe 

Beheld  these  lines,  made  inexpugnable 

By  perfect  skill,  and  patriot  feelings  here 

With  discipline  conjoined,  courageous  hands, 

True  spirits,  and  one  comprehensive  mind 

All  overseeing  and  pervading  all. 

Five  months,  tormenting  still  his  heart  with  hope, 

He  saw  his  projects  frustrated  ;  the  power 

Of  the  blaspheming  tyrant  whom  he  served 

Fail  in  the  proof ;  his  thousands  disappear, 

In  silent  and  inglorious  war  consumed  ; 

Till  hence  retreating,  maddened  with  despite, 

Here  did  the  self-styled  Son  of  Victory  leave, 

Never  to  be  redeemed,  that  vaunted  name. 


BAR  ROSA. 

FOR  the  next  two  years  the  Peninsular  war  was  carried 
on  in  Spain.  Victory  and  defeat,  alternately,  came  to 
the  French  cause,  but  the  end  brought  complete  triumph 
for  the  Allies.  King  Joseph  and  the  armies  which  kept 
him  on  the  throne  by  the  power  of  their  bayonets  only, 
went  back  to  France,  having  accomplished  nothing.  In 
all  human  probability  had  Napoleon  made  no  King  Jo- 
seph, and  had  he  not  sent  his  best  captains  and  the  flower 
of  his  veteran  armies  to  waste  their  time  and  their  blood 
in  an  uncalled-for  and  an  unjustifiable  warfare,  the  history 
of  Europe  would  not  be  what  it  is.  The  battle  of  Barrosa 
was  fought  the  fifth  of  March,  iSii.aml  resulted  in  a 
most  decisive  defeat  for  Marshal  Victor. 

HARROSA. 


Though  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  have  seen 
The  British  valour  proved  triumphantly 
Upon  the  French,  in  man}-  a  field  far-famed. 
Yet  may  the  noble  Island  in  her  rolls 
Of  glory  write  Barrosa's  name.      For  there. 
Xot  by  the  issue  of  deliberate  plans 
Consulted  well,  was  the  fierce  contest  won, 
Nor  b     the  leader's  ee  intuitive, 


\2  A   METRICAL   H '1 STORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Nor  force  of  either  arm  of  war,  nor  art 

Of  skilled  artillerist,  nor  the  discipline 

Of  troops  to  absolute  obedience  trained  ; 

But  by  the  spring  and  impulse  of  the  heart. 

Brought  fairly  to  the  trial,  when  all  else 

Seemed,  like  a  wrestler's  garment,  thrown  aside  ; 

By  individual  courage  and  the  sense 

Of  honour,  their  old  country's,  and  their  own, 

There  to  be  forfeited,  or  there  upheld  ; — 

This  warmed  the  soldier's  soul,  and  gave  his  hand 

The  strength  that  carries  with  it  victory. 

More  to  enhance  their  praise,  the  day  was  fought 

Against  all  circumstances  ;   a  painful  march. 

Through  twenty  hours  of  night  and  day  prolonged, 

Forespent  the  British  troops  ;  and  hope  delayed 

Had  left  their  spirits  palled.     But  when  the  word 

Was  given  to  turn,  and  charge,  and  win  the  heights, 

The  welcome  order  came  to  them  like  rain 

Upon  a  traveller  in  the  thirsty  sands. 

Rejoicing,  up  the  ascent,  and  in  the  front 

Of  danger,  they  with  steady  step  advanced. 

And  with  the  insupportable  bayonet 

Drove  down  the  foe.     The  vanquished  Victor  sa\v. 

And  thought  of  Talavcra,  and  deplored 

His  eagle  lost.      But  England  saw,  well  pleased, 

Her  old  ascendency  that  day  sustained  ; 

And  Scotland,  shouting  over  all  her  hills, 

Amonir  her  worthies  ranked  another  Graham. 


ALBUERA. 

TlIE  only  poetry  we  have  been  able  to  find  relating  to 
the  Peninsular  war  is  that  written  in  favour  of  the  cause 
of  the  Allies,  or  in  laudation  of  the  noble  deeds  per- 
formed by  the  English,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese  during 
that  long  struggle.  The  friends  and  admirers  of  Na- 
poleon have  not  cared  to  eulogise  his  course  of  action 
with  regard  to  the  affairs  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  and  with 
some  considerable  good  reason.  On  the  other  hand, 
English  poets  have  taken  great  delight  in  "  writing  up  " 
the  misfortunes  of  the  French  armies  in  the  Peninsula, 
and  verses  innumerable  have  told  the  story  of  their  great 
enemy's  ill  luck  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe.  At 
Albuera  Marshal  Soult  suffered  defeat  at  the  hands  of  the 
combined  allied  forces  commanded  by  the  English  Mar- 
shal Beresford.  The  Spanish  forces  fought  with  more 
than  usual  bravery,  and,  without  doubt,  the  old  French 
Marshal  owed  his  defeat  as  much  to  them  as  lie  did  t<> 
the  valour  of  the  English  soldiers. 

ALHUKRA. 

t    Al'l  1      1   '  >H   I  . 

Xerxes,  when  the  Three  Hundred  he  beheld 
Who  drove  his  myriads,  broke  his  tented  pride. 
And  with  Eeonidas  at  Pyl;e  died, 
With  venerating  awe  his  heart  was  quelled. 


254  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Philip,  thy  stern  breast  'gainst  itself  rebelled 

At  Chaeronea,  as  thy  victor  stride 

Passed  by  the  Theban  band  ;  who,  side  by  side, 

Like  brothers  fell,  nor  one  his  comrades  knelled. 

Does  not  the  dread  Napoleon  think  of  these, 

These  "  sons  of  glory,  these  sure  heirs  of  fame," 

At  Albuera  who  have  left  a  name, 

True  Spaniards,  which  oblivion  ne'er  shall  seize  ? 

Glory  to  them  eternity  decrees  : 

Does  not  his  inmost  heart  revere  their  hallowed  flame  ? 


THE    BATTLE    OF    SALAMANCA. 

SALAMANCA  only  added  to  the  misfortune  of  the 
French  cause  in  Spain.  Wellington  there  gained  a  signal 
victory  over  Marshal  Marmont,  who,  besides  defeat,  re- 
ceived a  serious  wound  which  compelled  him  to  give  up 
the  command  of  the  army  and  retire  to  France.  The 
Peninsula  proved  a  field  of  but  little  glory  for  these  great 
French  captains,  who.  in  all  other  quarters  of  the  world 
had  won  such  famous  renown.  Wellington,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  there  making  for  himself  a  record  which  would 
soon  earn  for  him  the  title  of  the  "  Iron  Duke,"  and 
finally  entitle  him  to  engage  personally  the  "  Little 
Corporal  "  himself. 

TIIK  I'.ATTI.K  OK  SALAMANCA. 

WILLIAM  THOMA>  Kl T/I:I- .KAI.II. 

Hark  !  the  deep  mouth'd  cannon's  sound. 
Tells  the  list'ning  world  around, 
Marmont  's  vanquish'd  !   -Victory  's  won  ! 
By  our  glorious  Wellington. 

Oh  !  ma>'  some  Bard,  like  Scott,  relate 
His  deeds  in  arms,  so  nobly  gre.it. 
That,  to  do  justice  to  his  name, 
The  Poet  ought  to  share  his  fame  ! 
Yet  still  my  bosom  warmly  glows. 
When  England  triumphs  o'er  her  foes  ; 


256  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  wishes,  though  in  humble  lays, 
To  celebrate  my  country's  praise  ! 

Marmont,  in  numbers  proud  and  strong, 
Drove  the  fierce  tide  of  war  along, 
To  crush  on  Salamanca's  plain, 
At  one  great  blow,  the  hopes  of  Spain  ! 
Or  else,  perhaps,  he  thought  to  shield 
The  Phantom  King,  who  dared  the  field  ; 
And  thus  to  save  the  Tyrant's  race, 
He  met  his  own,  and  Gaul's  disgrace. 
The  British  Chief,  with  piercing  eye, 
Saw  when  to  retrograde — not  fly — 
And  thus  deceiv'd  the  sanguine  foe, 
Who  rush'd  on  fate,  defeat,  and  woe  ! 
For,  at  the  word,  the  Britons  turn, 
And,  while  their  bosoms  nobly  burn, 
Strangers  to  ev'ry  thought  of  fear, 
They  trample  on  the  Gallic  spear ; 
Renew  the  deeds  that  Cressy  saw, 
And  turn  at  once  the  tide  of  war! 
In  dreadful  charge,  the  British  van 
Bore  down  whole  squadrons,  horse  and  man 
From  hill  to  hill,  pursued,  they  run, 
Like  shadows  chas'd  before  the  Sun  ! 
Fetlock'd  in  gore,  the  Victors  prest 
On  many  gallant  Frenchman's  breast. 
Who  might  have  liv'd  in  happier  times, 
Exempt  from  Bonaparte's  crimes  ; 
But  now  in  mangled  heaps  they  lie, 
Cursing  their  Tyrant  ere  they  die, 
Who  dragg'd  them  from  their  native  plain 
To  perish,  for  his  cause,  in  Spain  ! 
The  Tonnes,  once  a  limpid  flood, 
Red  with  the  slaughter,  swell'd  with  blood. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   SALAMAA'CA. 

And  join'd  the  Douro  to  the  Sea, 
Proclaiming  England's  Victory  ! 
While  Portugal  may  proudly  say, 
She  shar'd  the  honours  of  the  day, 
When  by  the  British  Hero  led, 
Her  sons,  with  Britons,  nobly  bled  ! 
Long  time  the  work  of  Death  was  done, 
Nor  ceas'd  but  with  the  setting  Sun, 
When  shclter'd  by  the  gloom  of  night, 
The  routed  Foe  urged  on  his  flight. 
Next  morn  (our  Victory  complete), 
The  Eagles  saw  at  Wellesley's  feet, 
With  countless  prisoners  in  his  train, 
And  thousands  breathless  on  the  plain  ! 
All  the  proud  Leaders  of  the  Foe 
Are  captives,  wounded  or  laid  low  ; 
While  Spanish  hills  and  valleys  ring, 
Blessing  England's  Prince  and  King, 
Who  sent  Their  Hero  to  sustain, 
Th'  invaded  Monarchy  of  Spain  ; 
What  Meed  's  for  Wellington  in  store  ? 
Whose  brows  were  laurel-crown'd  before 
In  every  clime  !— on  every  shore  ! 
Our  Edward  's  mighty  in  renown. 

And  Henry  fam'd  in  story. 
Marlb'rough,  who  shook  the  Gallic  cro\\:i, 

Did  not  surpass  your  glory  ! 
They  fill'd  of  Fame  the  brightest  page  ; 
You  live  the  Hero  of  your  age; 
The  Nation's  boundless  Gratitude  's  your  own. 
With  honours  trebled,  from  the  British  Throne 
England  beheld  the  Wave  to  Nelson  yield. 
As  He  the  Ocean,  You  command  the  P'ield  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  VITTORIA. 

MATTERS  in  Spain  were  assuming  a  serious  and  an 
alarming  character.  Napoleon,  busy  with  his  plans  for  the 
invasion  of  Russia,  had  no  time,  money,  or  soldiers  to  spare 
in  the  cause  of  his  sorely  tried  marshals  in  the  Peninsula. 
The  guerilla  warfare  adopted  by  the  Spaniards  and  the 
obstinate  valour  displayed  by  the  English  veterans  were 
more  than  a  match  for  the  hitherto  unconquered  war- 
riors of  France.  The  struggle,  it  is  true,  was  kept  up  in 
a  gallant  and  heroic  manner  until  the  twenty-first  of  June, 
1813,  when  the  battle  of  Vittoria  was  fought,  which 
proved  the  Waterloo  of  the  French  cause  in  the  Penin- 
sula. Five  years  of  continued  cruel  and  inhuman  war- 
fare, costing  rivers  of  blood  and  untold  fortune,  resulted 
in  absolutely  nothing  but  disaster  to  the  great  hopes  of 
Napoleon. 

THK    BATTLE    OF    VITTORIA. 

\YII.I.IAM  GLEN. 

Sing,  a'  ye  bards,  wi'  loud  acclaim, 
High  glory  gie  to  gallant  Graham, 
Heap  laurels  on  our  marshal's  fame, 

Wha  conquer' d  at  Vittoria. 
Triumphant  freedom  smiled  on  Spain, 
An'  raised  her  stately  form  again, 
Whan  the  British  lion  shook  his  mane 

On  the  mountains  of  Yittoria. 
255 


THE  BATTLE    OF    VITTORIA.  259 

Let  blustering  Suchet  crouscly  crack. 
Let  Joseph  rin  the  coward's  track, 
An'  Jourdan  wish  his  baton  back 

He  left  upon  Vittoria. 
If  e'er  they  meet  their  worthy  king, 
Let  them  dance  roun'  him  in  a  ring, 
An'  some  Scots  piper  play  the  spring 

He  blew  them  at  Vittoria. 

Gie  truth  and  honour  to  the  Dane, 
Gie  German's  monarch  heart  and  brain. 
But  aye  in  sic  a  cause  as  Spain 

Gie  Britain  a  Vittoria. 
The  English  rose  was  ne'er  sac  red, 
The  shamrock  waved  whare  glory  led. 
An'  the  Scottish  thistle  rear'd  its  head 

In  joy  upon  Vittoria. 

Loud  was  the  battle's  stormy  swell, 
Whare  thousands  fought  an'  mony  fell, 
But  the  Glascow  heroes  bore  the  bell 

At  the  battle  of  Vittoria. 
The  Paris  maids  may  ban  them  a', 
Their  lads  are  maistly  wede  awa'. 
An'  cauld  an'  pale  as  wreaths  o'  snaw 

They  lie  upon   Vittoria. 

Wi'  quakin'  heart  and  tremblin'  knees 

The  eagle  standard-bearer  flees, 

While  the  "  meteor  Hag"  floats  to  the  bree/e. 

An'  wantons   on   Vittoria. 
Britannia's  glory  there  \\as  shown. 
By  the  undaunted  Wellington, 
An'  the  tyrant  trembled  <.n  his  throne. 

Whan  hearin'  <  >'  \  it  t  ori.i. 


260  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Peace  to  the  spirits  o'  the  brave, 
Let  a'  their  trophies  for  them  wave, 
An'  green  be  our  Cadogan's  grave, 

Upon  thy  field,  Vittoria  ! 
There  let  eternal  laurels  bloom, 
While  maidens  mourn  his  early  doom, 
An'  deck  his  lowly  honour'd  tomb 

Wi'  roses  on  Vittoria. 

Ye  Caledonian  war-pipes,  play, 
Barrosa  heard  your  Hielan'  lay, 
An'  the  gallant  Scot  show'd  there  that  day 

A  prelude  to  Vittoria. 
Shout  to  the  heroes — swell  ilk  voice, — 
To  them  wha  made  poor  Spain  rejoice, 
Shout  Wellington  an'  Lynedoch,  boys, 

Barrosa  an'  Vittoria. 


THE  MARCH  TO  MOSCOW. 

THE  Russian  campaign  proved  a  serious  matter  for  all 
concerned  in  it.  Southey,  who  delighted  in  using  his  pen 
against  everything  pertaining  to  Napoleon,  made  this 
campaign  the  subject  of  a  poem,  called  at  the  time  hu- 
morous, but  which  lacks  all  the  elements  of  good  taste. 
"  Prolix  buffoonery  "  are  the  proper  terms  to  apply  to  it. 
There  is,  as  has  been  well  said,  too  much  "jaunty  hilar- 
ity "  in  it.  The  author  might  far  better,  and  with  much 
more  credit  to  himself,  have  treated  his  theme  with  sobri- 
ety, as  the  occasion  certainly  called  for  such  treatment. 
But  it  was  the  fashion  in  those  days  for  English  writers 
to  ridicule  Napoleon,  and  Southey  was  not  the  man  to 
let  such  an  opportunity  as  this  go  by  without  giving  ex- 
pression to  his  personal  feelings.  The  poem  will  amuse 
the  reader,  and  it  will,  at  least,  afford  him  a  chance  to  try 
his  skill  at  unravelling  the  Russian  puzzle  of  proper  name-- 
embraced therein. 

Tin:   MARCH   TO   MOSCOW. 

Ki'UKKr  S<>nnr\ 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  oil 
On  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow  ; 
The  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu  '    Parblcu  ! 

\Vhat  a  pleasant  excursion   to  Moscow! 
261 


262  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more 
Must  go  with  him  to  Moscow: 
There  were  Marshals  by  the  dozen, 
And  Dukes  by  the  score  ; 
Princes  a  few,  and  Kings  one  or  two  : 
While  the  fields  are  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 
Heigh-ho  for  Moscow  ! 
Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 
Marshal  Ney,  lack-a-day  ! 
General  Rapp,  the  Emperor  Nap  ; 
Nothing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 

Nothing  would  do 
For  the  whole  of  this  crew, 
But  they  must  be  marching  to  Moscow. 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  talk'cl  so  big 

That  he  frightcn'd  Mr.  Roscoe. 

John  Bull,  he  cries,  if  you  '11  be  wise, 

Ask  the  Emperor  Nap  if  he  will  please 

To  grant  you  peace,  upon  your  knees, 

Because  he  is  going  to  Moscow  ! 
He  '11  make  all  the  Poles  come  out  of  their  holes, 
And  beat  the  Russians,  and  eat  the  Prussians  : 
For  the  fields  are  green,  and  the  sky  is  blue, 
Morbleu!    Parbleu! 

And  he  '11  certainly  march  to  Moscow  ! 

And  Counsellor  Brougham  was  all  in  a  fume 
At  the  thought  of  the  March  to  Moscow  : 
The  Russians,  lie  said,  they  were  undone. 


THE   MARCH    TO   MOSCOW.  263 

And  the  great  Fee — Fa\v — Fum 

Would  presently  come, 

With  a  hop,  step,  and  jump,  unto  London. 

For,  as  for  his  conquering  Russia, 

However  some  persons  might  scoff  it, 

Do  it  he  could,  and  do  it  he  would, 

And  from  doing  it  nothing  would  come  but  good. 

And  nothing  could  call  him  off  it. 

.Mr.  Jeffrey  said  so,  who  must  certainly  know, 

For  he  was  the  Edinburgh  Prophet. 

They  all  of  them  knew  Mr.  Jeffrey's  Review, 

Which  with  Holy  Writ  ought  to  be  rcckon'd  : 

It  was,  through  thick  and  thin,  to  its  party  true  ; 

Its  back  was  buff,  and  its  sides  were  blue, 

Morblcu  !   Parbleu  ! 
It  served  them  for  Law  and  for  Gospel  too. 

But  the  Russians  stoutly  they  turned  t<> 

Upon  the  road  to  Moscow. 

Xap  had  to  fight  his  way  all  through  ; 
They  could  fight,  though  they  could  not/w /'/<•.;•  TV//.V  .- 
Hut  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 
Morblcu  !    Parbleu  ! 

And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 

He  found  the  place  too  warm  tor  him, 
For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow. 
To  get  there  had  o»t  him  much  ado, 
And  then  no  better  course  he  kne\v. 
While  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue-. 

Morbleu  !    Parbleu  ! 
But  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 

The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  him 
All  on  the  road   from  Moscow. 
There1  was  Torma/.on  and    |emalon. 


264  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  on  ; 

Milarodovitch  and  Jaladovitch, 

And  Karatschkowitch, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch  ; 

Schamscheff,  Souchosaneff, 

And  Schepaleff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff, 

Wasiltschikoff,  Kostomaroff, 

And  Tchoglokoff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off ; 

Rajeffsky,  and  Novereffsky, 

And  Rieffsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  effsky  ; 
Oscharoffsky  and  Rostoffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  offsky ; 
And  Platoff  he  play'd  them  off, 
And  Shouvaloff  he  shovell'd  them  off, 
And  Markoff  he  mark'd  them  off, 
And  Krosnoff  he  cross'd  them  off, 
And  Tuchkoff  he  touch'd  them  off, 
And  Boroskoff  he  bored  them  off, 
And  Kutousoff  he  cut  them  off, 
And  Parenzoff  he  pared  them  off, 
And  Worronzoff  he  worried  them  off, 
And  Doctoroff  he  doctor'd  them  off, 
And  Rodionoff  he  flogg'd  them  off. 
And  last  of  all,  an  Admiral  came, 
A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible  name, 
A  name  which  you  all  know  by  sight  very  well, 
But  which  no  can  speak,  and  no  one  can  spell. 
They  stuck  close  to  Nap  with  all  their  might  ; 
They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the  right, 
Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  night  ; 
lie  would  rather parlc'j-i'ous  than  fight  ; 


THE  MARCH    TO   MO SCO  II'.  265 

But  he  look'd  white,  and  he  look'd  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
When  parlcz-i>ons  no  more  would  do. 
For  they  remembered  Moscow. 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

The  wind  and  the  weather  he  found  in  that  hour. 

Cared  nothing  for  him  nor  for  all  his  power  ; 

For  him  who,  while  Europe  crouch'd  under  his  rod. 

Put  his  trust  in  his  fortune,  and  not  in  his  God, 

Worse  and  \vorse  every  day  the  elements  grew, 

The  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue. 

Sacrebleu  !  Ventrebleu  ! 
What  a  horrible  journey  from  Moscow  ! 

What  then  thought  the  Emperor  Nap 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow  ? 

Why,  I  ween  he  thought  it  small  delight 

To  fight  all  day,  and  to  freeze  all  night  ; 

And  he  was  besides  in  a  very  great  fright, 

For  a  whole  skin  he  liked  to  be  in  ; 

And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do, 

When  the  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
He  stole  away — I  tell  you  true, — 
Upon  the  road  from  Moscow. 
"  'T  is  myself,"  quoth  he.  "  I  must  mind  most. 
So  the  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost." 

Too  cold  upon  the  road  was  he  ; 
Too  hot  had  he  been  at  Moscow  ; 
But  colder  and  hotter  lie  may  be, 
For  the  grave  is  colder  than  Muscovy  ; 
And  a  place  there  is  to  be  kept  in  view. 


266  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

Where  the  fire  is  red,  and  the  brimstone  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
Which  he  must  go  to, 
If  the  Pope  say  true, 
If  he  does  not  in  time  look  about  him  ; 
Where  his  namesake  almost 
He  may  have  for  his  Host  ; 
He  has  reckon'd  too  long  without  him  ; 
If  that  Host  get  him  in  Purgatory, 
He  won't  leave  him  there  alone  with  his  glory 
But  there  he  must  stay  for  a  very  long  day. 
For  from  thence  there  is  no  stealing  away, 
As  there  was  on  the  road  to  Moscow. 


VIVE  L'  EM  PER  EUR. 

\APOLEON  and  Alexander  were,  no  doubt,  both,  in  a 
great  measure,  responsible  for  the  rupture  which  took 
place  in  1812  between  their  respective  nations;  but  the 
great  responsibility  for  the  Russian  campaign  and  the 
awful  results  which  attended  it,  must  rest,  in  justice,  with 
England.  She  had  resolved  that  the  complete  overthrow 
of  Napoleon  and  his  government  was  the  only  condition 
that  would  be  accepted  by  her  for  a  cessation  of  hostility 
against  the  hated  usurper  of  the  French  throne.  French 
commerce  was  driven  from  the  seas  and  destroyed  ;  coa- 
lition after  coalition  was  formed  with  European  nations 
to  act  against  the  common  enemy  and  for  ten  years  there 
had  been  no  truce  in  her  efforts  to  destroy  her  great  and 
only  rival.  Carrying  on  an  incessant  warfare  in  the  Pen- 
insula, which  demanded  the  presence  of  the  flower  of  the 
French  army  to  hold  in  check,  England  had  sought  to 
surprise  and  cripple  France  by  entering  into  a  coalition 
with  Austria  and  inducing  that  nation  to  declare  war. 
YVagram  put  an  end  to  that  scheme,  and  the  marriage  of 
Napoleon  to  the  Archduchess  of  Austria  was  not  just  the 
result  anticipated  by  England.  Russia  was  the  only  con- 
tinental nation  unconquered  by  the  might}*  legions  of 
France.  Alexander  had  sworn  eternal  friendship  to  Na- 
poleon at  Tilsit  ;  but  with  the  understanding  that  G  >nstan- 


268  A    METRICAL   II I  STORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

tinople  should  be  his.  Napoleon  had  agreed  to  this,  but 
with  the  mental  reservation  that  he  would  never  permit 
the  key  to  India  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  any  one  but 
himself ;  and  he  had  further  resolved  that  Russia  must 
join  in  the  continental  blockade  against  -English  com- 
merce. .  Peace  between  England  and  France  meant  an 
end  of  the  war  with  Spain  and  no  war  with  Russia  ;  but 
England  would  not  have  it  that  way.  With  Napoleon's 
veterans  and  mightiest  marshals  engaged  in  the  Penin- 
sula, the  time  was  ripe  for  more  intrigue,  and  the  coali- 
tion between  England  and  Russia  was  formed.  It  was, 
indeed,  a  serious  matter  for  I7 ranee,  at  that  time,  to  en- 
gage in  a  war  with  so  powerful  an  adversary  as  Russia, 
backed,  as  she  was,  by  the  influence  and  wealth  of  Eng- 
land. Her  allies,  it  is  true,  embraced  all  the  nations  of 
Europe,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  Sweden  excepted ;  but  the 
friendship  of  most  of  them  was  a  forced  and  a  strained 
one.  Austria  and  Prussia  stood  ready  to  break  their 
compacts  at  the  first  auspicious  moment,  and  Bernadotte, 
traitor  at  heart  to  Napoleon's  cause  from  the  early  days 
of  the  republic,  had  already  entered  into  an  alliance 
with  Russia,  and  was  about  to  turn  his  guns  upon  the 
man  who  had  made  it  possible  for  him  to  wear  a  crown. 
It  was  within  the  power  of  England,  and  England  alone, 
to  stop  the  invasion  of  Russia,  and  to  give  the  world 
universal  peace  ;  but  to  give  the  world  peace  never  was 
her  purpose,  so  long  as  Napoleon  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
government  of  France.  Russia  could  not,  with  honour, 
submit  to  the  demands  of  France,  and  France,  in  justice 
to  herself,  could  not  recede,  and  so  war  was  invoked. 


VIVE   LEMPEREVR.  269 

Never  before  in  his  whole  history  had  Napoleon  assem- 
bled such  an  army  as  crossed  the  Niemen  under  his 
command,  on  the  twenty-fourth  and  twenty-fifth  of  June, 
1812.  It  seemed  but  the  matter  of  a  short  campaign 
when  terms  of  peace  would  be  dictated  by  him  from 
Russia's  ancient  capital,  as  the}-  had  been  from  Berlin 
and  Vienna.  But  such  was  not  to  be  the  case.  Things 
went  wrong  with  him  from  the  beginning  of  the  campaign 
to  the  end.  On  the  banks  of  the  Niemen,  before  cross- 
ing into  Russian  territory,  the  Emperor  was  thrown  from 
his  horse  on  the  sands  ;  which  incident  caused  some  one 
present  to  remark  :  "  That  is  a  bad  omen,  a  Roman  would 
turn  back."  But,  instead  of  turning  back,  he  rode  with 
the  advance  guard,  urging  everything  forward.  Reach- 
ing the  river  Wilia,  he  found  the  bridges  destroyed,  and 
the  stream  swollen  with  recent  rains.  Anxious  to  get  on 
he  ordered  a  squadron  of  Polish  cavalry  to  cross  by  swim- 
ming. They  instantly  plunged  into  the  water,  but  before 
they  could  reach  the  middle  of  the  stream  the  torrent 
broke  their  ranks  and  swept  them  away,  almost  to  a  man, 
before  the  very  eyes  of  Napoleon,  to  whom  main-  of  them 
in  their  last  struggle  turned  their  faces,  and  as  they  sank 
from  sight  exclaimed  in  loud  tones,  "  Vive  1'Kmpereur." 
This  historical  incident  is  the  subject  of  the  following 

lines  : 

VIVK    I/K.MPKKKrR! 

R.     MoNTCOMItfiY. 

By  Wilia's  banks  the  rushing  river  swept 
Like  a  careering  whirlwind  ;   white  with  foam. 
And  plunging  on  in  many  a  gurgled  roar 
Of  furious  nitre .      So  fiercelv  flies  the  steed. 


2/0  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Unmanaclcd,  that  with  his  upshot  cars, 

And  limbs  vein-swelling  with  their  wrathful  glow, 

Undaunted  gallops  over  hill  and  dale, 

His  mane  dishevelled  and  his  eyes  on  fire  : 

Each  massy  bridge  was  ruined,  and  afar 

The  giddy  wrecks  were  battling  with  the  flood, 

Till  whirl'd  below.     'T  was  then  Napoleon  came 

With  his  embattled  hosts.     That  wondrous  man 

Whose  daring  spirit,  with  volcanic  rage, 

Breathed  flame  and  ruin  on  the  affrighted  world. 

His  eye  could  span  the  Universe  !     His  soul 

Had  fire  enough  to  vanquish  all  !     In  vain 

Wild  Nature  barred  his  progress  with  her  piles 

Tiar'd  by  the  clouds  ; — in  vain  the  rocks 

Upreared  their  ice-haired  heads  to  block  his  path, 

Or  hurled  their  torrents  at  him  !     With  a  glance 

Fierce  as  the  eagle's,  when  his  piercing  eye 

Gleams  through  the  darkening  air,  he  looked  beyond 

Them  all  !     Nature  and  he  were  giants  twin, 

And  her  impediments  but  forced  the  flames 

Of  genius  from  his  soul  ;  as  thunder  clouds, 

Together  clashed,  dart  forth  their  lightning  gleams. 

Upon  the  howling  flood  he  casts  a  glance. 
Such  as  the  tiger  darts,  ere  on  his  prey 
lie  springs,  to  gnash  it  in  his  rav'nous  fangs  ; 
Then  fiercely  cried, — "  On,  on  !  my  valiant  Poles  ! 
They  answer'd  not !  but  with  a  clanging  stir 
Goaded  their  panting  battle-steeds,  and  plunged 
Amid  the  torrent's  rush.      Like  loosened  crags 
l>own  dashing  on  the  sea,  the  warriors  sank, 
Emburied  in  the  stream  ;   then  buoy'd  again, 
And  panting,  cleaved  their  roaring  track.     Beneath 
Their  gallant  burdens,  bravely  pawed  the  steeds. 
With  blowing  nostrils,  and  red-rolling  eves. 


L'EMPEREUR.  2/1 

And  many  a  furious  snort :  against  their  breasts 

The  cloven  waters  foam'd,  and  flash'd  behind 

Their  darting  hoofs  ;  and  roar'd  and  raged  around 

The  dripping  ranks,  like  a  disturbed  den 

Of  lions  in  the  wood  ;  but  vain  the  rush  ; 

Midway  the  maddening  torrent  overwhelm'd 

The  struggling  files  ;  like  a  tremendous  blast 

Among  autumnal  leaves,  it  scatter'd  all ! 

Rank  after  rank  was  buried  in  the  flood, 

Upon  their  panting  steeds  ;  while  round  their  heads 

The  waters  yell'd,  as  victors  o'er  their  foes ; 

But  in  that  gasp — while  yet  their  spirits  hung 

'Tween  life  and  death,  as  feathers  in  the  air— 

They  turned  their  heads,  and  with  triumphant  shrieks 

Of  valour,  wildly  sounded, — "Vive  1'Empereur! 

He  heard  their  death-cries  rolling  on  the  blast. 

And  as  a  lake  just  rippled  into  life, 

His  features  flutter'd  with  terrific  throes 

Of  agony;  and  then  he  gnash'd  his  teeth. 

And  dug  his  nails  into  his  palms,  and  heav'd 

His  breast,  and  glanced  his  eyes,  and  groan 'd  for  words  ! 


BORODINO. 

ALEXANDER'S  tactics  during  Napoleon's  advance  on 
Moscow  were  a  series  of  masterly  retreats.  His  policy, 
which,  no  doubt,  was  the  only  one  which  could  have  suc- 
ceeded, was  to  draw  the  invaders  as  far  as  possible  into 
his  own  country  and  away  from  their  source  of  supplies. 
He  did  not  dare  risk  the  fate  of  Russia  upon  the  fortune 
of  battle,  for  he  well  knew  what  the  result  would  be. 
His  army  destroyed,  he  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  foe 
who  would  make  him  pay  dearly  for  his  temerity  in 
opposing  him  in  arms.  He  chose  rather  to  let  desolation 
and  want  do  what  his  soldiers  could  not.  In  pursuance 
of  this  policy,  the  Russians  in  their  retreat  left  behind 
them  an  utterly  barren  waste.  Cities  and  villages  were 
burned  to  the  ground  ;  provisions  for  man  and  beast  were 
removed  far  beyond  the  reach  of  the  advancing  armies; 
bridges  were  destroyed  and  roads  made  as  nearly  impas- 
sable as  human  ingenuity  could  accomplish  such  a  task. 
A  show  of  battle  was  made  at  several  points,  but  only 
enough  to  encourage  the  pursuit.  Moscow  was  twenty- 
five  hundred  miles  from  Paris,  and  the  nearer  Napoleon 
approached  to  that  city  the  nearer  he  was  to  his  own 
destruction.  Alexander  knew  this,  Napoleon  did  not. 
Counselled  by  his  marshals  not  to  push  on  further,  the 
Emperor  paid  no  attention  to  their  advice.  A  retreat, 


ALEXANDER  I. 
From  an  engraving  by  Ant.  V.  Cardon,  after  Gerard  KUcheulien. 

London,    1804. 


BORODINO.  273 

to  him,  was  disgrace  ;  to  tarry  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies 
meant  ruin.  In  a  steady  advance,  though  at  a  cost  which 
was  frightful,  he  saw  his  only  chance  for  success,  his  only 
hope  for  honour  and  for  glory.  Every  battle  he  could 
force  his  foes  to  fight,  resulted  in  victory;  but  victory 
void  of  any  decisive  meaning.  At  last,  Moscow  was  near 
at  hand,  and  Alexander  determined  to  make  one  mighty 
effort  to  prevent  Napoleon  from  entering  the  city,  which, 
once  entered  by  the  invading  armies,  was  doomed  to  self- 
destruction.  On  the  seventh  of  September  the  battle  of 
Borodino  was  fought.  Three  hundred  thousand  men 
hurled  themselves  against  each  other  with  the  fury  of 
unchained  demons.  From  early  dawn  until  the  close  of 
day  the  awful  struggle  went  on,  and  when  in  the  end, 
the  Russians  were  forced  to  retire  from  their  strongly 
entrenched  position,  it  was  without  disorder,  fighting 
inch  by  inch  the  ground  they  were  obliged  to  yield.  The 
losses,  on  both  sides,  were  simply  horrible  and  the  vic- 
tory won  by  Napoleon,  if  victory  it  was,  turned  out  to  be 
of  little  worth. 

BORODINO. 

I-"K<>M  THK  RrssiAN  <>r   1't  SHKIN. 
All  ni<rht  beside  our  guns  we  lav, 

O  O  J     ' 

Xor  tent  nor  fire  was  there  ; 
Our  arms  we  whetted  lor  the  fray, 

And  prayed  our  whispered  prayer. 
The  tempest  raged  till  morning  red  ; 
I,  while  a  gun-car  propped  my  head. 

Spoke  in  my  comrade's  ear: 
"  Brother,  hear'st  thou  h<>\\   tierce  and  last. 


2/4  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Like  freedom's  war  song,  yon  wild  blast  ?  " 
But  wrapt  in  dreams  of  years  long  past, 
My  comrade  did  not  hear. 

The  drums  beat  loud — the  mist-cloud  dun 

'Gan  eastward  lighter  grow, 
And  launched  from  unexpected  gun 

Came  greeting  from  the  foe. 
Then  spake  our  chief  before  our  line  ; 
"  Moscow  's  behind  us,  children  mine  ! 

Moscow  we  die  to  shield  ; 
'T  was  thus  our  brethren  did  the  deed  !  " 
And  one  and  all  we  vowed  to  bleed  ; 
And  well  that  promise  did  we  heed 

On  Borodino's  field. 

I  shudder  at  the  thought — ah  me  ! 

Poltava,  Rymnik — there 
In  hope  of  glory  battled  we, 

But  here  in  grim  despair. 
We  closed  our  ranks  without  a  sound, 
Guns  thundered,  bullets  whistled  round  ; 

I  crossed  myself — when  nigh 
My  comrade  fell,  all  bleeding  red  ; 
I  panted  to  avenge  the  dead, 
And  from  my  levelled  gun  the  lead 

With  deadly  aim  did  fly. 

"  March  forward,  march  !  "   No  more  I  know 

Of  what  befell  that  day  ; 
Six  times  we  yielded  to  the  foe, 

Six  times  the  foe  gave  way  ; 
And  shadowy  banners  waved  above, 
And  shadowy  foes  against  us  strove, 

And  fire  through  smoke  did  rain  ; 


BORODINO. 

Full  on  the  guns  the  horsemen  broke, 
The  wearied  arm  refused  its  stroke, 
And  rushing  balls  their  flight  did  choke 
In  hills  of  gory  slain. 

There  dead  and  living  mingled  lay, 

The  cold  night  gathered  round, 
And  all  who  yet  survived  the  fray 

In  deepest  gloom  were  drowned  ; 
The  roaring  cannon  ceased  to  boom, 
But  guns  that  beat  amid  the  gloom 

Showed  where  the  foe  withdrew. 
How  welcome  was  the  morning  red  ! 
"  Now  God  be  praised  !  "   I  only  said, 
For  shivering  on  a  couch  of  dead 

I  lay  the  long  night  through. 

There,  in  death's  sleep  our  bravest  lay. 

Beneath  the  fatal  shade  ; 
How  gallant  and  how  stanch  that  day  ! 

Alas  !    that  could  not  aid. 
But  ever  in  the  roll  of   Fame, 
Above  Poltava's,  Rymnik's  name 

Rings  Borodino's  praise. 
Sooner  the  Prophet's  tongue  shall  lie. 
Sooner  shall  fade  Heaven's  shining  eye. 
Than  from  our  Northern  memory 

Shall  time  that  field  erase. 


THE  JEWELLED  GLOVE. 

Ox  the  fourteenth  of  September,  1812,  the  French  army 
entered  Moscow.  Here  the  soldiers  expected  to  find  food 
and  shelter,  so  long  and  so  urgently  needed.  Here  they 
were  to  obtain  that  rest,  so  well  earned  by  the  many 
weary  days  and  sleepless  nights  they  had  passed  through. 
Here  awaited  them  the  ease  and  comfort,  oriental  in  com- 
parison with  the  hardships  they  had  left  behind.  How 
different  the  reality  from  what  they  had  fancied  was  to 
be  their  lot  !  One  of  the  most  magnificent  of  cities, 
deserted  as  the  barren  face  of  a  desert.  Not  a  soul  to  be 
seen,  save  those  vile  and  inhuman  wretches  left  behind 
to  do  the  will  of  their  masters.  Palace  and  cottage  given 
up  alike  to  the  enemy  and  to  plunder.  The  French  sol- 
diers, bidding  defiance  to  the  flames,  already  bursting  forth 
from  all  quarters  of  the  city  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  ex- 
cesses. The  young  officers,  more  refined  in  their  amuse- 
ments, sought  to  forget  war  and  its  attendant  horrors  in 
the  pleasures  of  the  dance,  and  many  scenes  like  the  one 
portrayed  in  the  following  lines,  so  far  as  the  dance  is 
concerned,  is  said  to  have  actually  taken  place,  although 
"Celia"  and  the  other  joyous  "daughters"  of  France 
were  not  present  ;  at  least  not  at  the  time  they  are  reprc- 
<ented  to  be  in  this  poem. 


THE  JEWELLED   GLOVE. 
THE  JEWELLED  GLOVE. 


ANON. 


Gay  tones  rang  on  the  darkness  from  out  a  palace  fair, 
And  echo  answered  echo  with  music  sweet  and  rare. 
And   gorgeous    lights  were  shining,    and   Pleasure   ruled 

the  hour, 

And  not  a  shadow  burdened  her  beaut}'  and  her  power; 
And  swiftly  flew  the  moments,  as  in  the  mazy  dance 
Mingled  the  sons  and  daughters  of  gay  and  lovely  France. 

'T  was  in  a  lordly  dwelling  those  joyous  ones  had  met. 
And  its  blazonry  was  gleaming  with  a  ducal  coronet  ; 
The  air  was  rich  with  fragrance,  and  the  soldier's  waving 

plume 

Was  bending  o'er  the  roses  on  Beauty's  cheek  of  bloom  ; 
And  swiftly  flew  the  moments,  as  in  the  mazy  dance 
Mingles  the  sons  and  daughters  of  gay  and  lovely  France. 

They  had  heard  Marengo's  thunder- — those  stern  and  gal- 
lants braves  ! 

The\-  had  stemmed  the  roar  of  battle  beside  Italian 
waves, 

And  seen  the  best  and  bravest,  in  main"  a  gory  pile, 

Heaped  up  around  the  billows  of  the  redly-rolling  Nile  ; 

But  thoughtless,  now,  and  happy,  the}'  mingle  in  the 
dance 

With  the  fair  and  'witching  daughters  of  <rav  and  sunnv 


fo'V 


The  gale  grew   deep    and    mournful,  as  the  prophet  tones 

of  old, 

And  then  arose  in  fur}',  with  murmurs  loud  and  cold  ; 
But  they  heeded  not  its  accents,  anil  the  wild,  foreboding 

sound 
Was  blent  with  song  and  laughter,  as  the  goblet   passed 

around  ; 


278  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  louder  swelled  the  music,  as  in  the  mazy  dance 
Mingled    the    sons    and    daughters    of    gay    and    gallant 
France. 

But  hark! — a  shrill  reveille  breaks  on  the  midnight  air— 

A  thrilling  cry  of  terror  disturbs  the  Wassail  there  ; 

It  shook  the   warrior's  plumage,  and    chased  the  happy 

glow 

From  off  his  regal  forehead  and  woman's  gentle  brow; 
With    sad    and    troubled    spirits,    they    rested    from   the 

dance — 
The  joyous  sons  and  daughters  of  gay  and  gallant  France. 

"  Fire  !  "  loud,  and  clear,  and  awful,  it  reached  that  breath- 
less crowd  ; 
"Fire!  fire!"  ten  thousand  voices  replied   like  thunder 

loud  ; 

'*  Fire  !  fire  !  "  and  there  were  echoed  wild  shrieks  of  agony. 
As  flames  from  blazing  Moscow  lit  up  the  lurid  sky ! 
All  pale,  but  calm  and  silent,  they  rested  from  the  dance — 
The  noble  sons  and  daughters  of  gay  and  gallant  France. 

O'er  tower  and  dome  and  palace  those  glowing  demons 

twine, 

In  splendour  stern  and  matchless  and  terribly  sublime  ; 
They  shot  toward  angry  heaven,  they  lit  the  snowy  sod — 
They  seemed  like  the  avengers  of  some  offended  god  ! 
As   gates   of   Death   they  gathered  around    the  hosts  of 

France, 
And  glared  upon  the  figures  that  had  left  the  mazy  dance. 

Carnot  looked  out  on  Moscow,  and  watched  her  sullen  foe, 
lie  heard  the  bursting  bomb-shells,  the  piercing  cries  of 

woe, 
And  the   air  grew    hot   and   heavy  -the    sky  was  red    as 

blood — 


THE  JEWEI.I.ED   GI.OTE.  2~i) 

The  roar  of  fire  resounded  like  a  stormy  ocean-flood  ; 
He  turned  again  to  Celia— the  fairest  in  the  dance- 
A  bright  and  happy  blossom  from  a  viny  glen  of  France. 

She  caught  the  dauntless  spirit  within  his  eyes  of  night, 
And  smiled   upon  her  soldier  with   a  glance  of  love  and 

light, 

And  proudly  gazed  upon  him,  as  his  wavy  ebon  hair 
Was  tossed    by    deathful  breezes  from   off   his   forehead 

fair. 
She    leaned    upon    his    bosom,   as  they   rested   from    thr 

dance — 
The    starred    and    noble    bosom   that    beat   for   her    and 

France. 

Carnot  looked  on  the  dancers  and  the  lady  of  his  love, 
And  toward  the  burning  city-  then  waved  his  jewelled 

glove, 
And  cried  :     "  Though  the  fire  poureth  like  the  ^weeping 

autumn  rain, 
Come,  join    with    me,   my  gallants,  and    defiance   to   the 

flames  ! 

Lead  forth  the  gentle  daughters  of  our  beloved  France. 
To  brighten  with  their  beauty  the  ma/es  of  the  dance. 

"  The  Russian   dogs  have  folded  in  ruin  Moscow's  wai's  ; 
Hut  Gallia's  warrior  fears  not,  and  these  are  noble  halls. 
And  though  the   night  is  cheerless,  the  tempest  wild   ..nd 

high, 

And  spectre-hosts  are  sweeping  across  the  winter  -ky 
What    care   we?      Fill    the   goblet,   ye    knights    of    s\«.  .,rd 

and  lance, 
Drink  to  our  Fagle  banner,  Napoleon,  and  our  Franc  • 

"  The  hero  now  is  watching,  in   Kremlin's  lofty  tow'; 
The  progress  of  this  conflict-    the  fiery  demon's  pov.  r. 


280  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Then  hasten,  comrades,  hasten,  one  dance  with  lady  fair, 
And  then  to  prancing  charges,  and  we  will  seek  him 

there  ; 
Come,  smile    again,   fair   daughters  of  gay  and   queenly 

France  ! 
We  wait   for  you  the  signal  to  join  the  graceful  dance." 

Again  the  brave  young  Carnot  upraised  his  jewelled  hand. 
And  every  fear  departed  from  out  the  thoughtless  band  ; 
Pale  cheeks  regained  their  crimson,  the  music  swelled 

again, 

While  onward  crept  the  legions  of  misery  and  flame  ! 
Bright — nearer  and  nearer  came  they,  and   glared  upon 

the  dance, 
And  mocked  the  merry  children  of  gay  and  sunny  France. 

They  hissed  in  bloody  circles,  then  angrily  arose 

On  works  of  peerless  splendour,  and  gleamed  o'er  Northern 

snows  ; 
They   leaped   to  meet  the  whirlwind  in  the  wildly  flying 

cloud, 

They  spread  for  Gallia's  Eagle  a  gory  funeral  shroud. 
Woe  to  the  haughty  Carnot,  and  those  among  the  dance  ! 
Woe  to  the  star  of  glory  and  haughty  plume  of  France  ! 

The  crash  of  falling  columns  arose  o'er  every  sound  : 

"  Fly  !  fly  for  life  !  "    cried  Carnot — "  the  flames  are  all 

around  ; 

Look  to  these  helpless  maidens  !     O  Celia,  Celia,  fly  ! 
Oh,  if  I  can  but  save  her,  how  joyous  will  I  die  !  " 
Woe,  woe  to  youthful  Carnot  and  those  who  joined  the 

dance  ! 
Woe  to  the  star  of  glory  and  eagle-plume  of  France  ! 

lie  pressed  his  Celia  to  him,  and  op'd  the  massive  door— 
The  sea  of  fire  before  them  was  red  as  human  gore  ! 


THE  JEWELLED    CLOT/:.  28  I 

He  gazed  upon  the  lady,  and  then  in  wild  despair, 
Sprang  to  the  lurid  lattice — a  pall  of  flame  was  there  ! 
On  every  wall  around  them  the  fiends  of  ruin  dance. 
Woe  to  the  sons  and  daughters  of  gay  and  happy  France  ! 

One  instant,  pale  with  terror,  they  gazed  upon  the  scene: 
Then    quickly   came    a   cry :   "  The    fire   has    reached  the 

magazine  ! 

Great  God  !  it  is  beneath  us  !  "     All  passionless  and  calm. 
And  stupefied  to  silence,  they  heard  the  wild  alarm  ; 
And    Carnot    whispered    slowly,     and    with    a    mournful 

glance: 
"  We    stray   no   more,    dear    Celia,   among    the    vales   of 

France !  " 

Gemmed  ringlets  hid  the  orders  upon  his  heaving  breast. 
While    round    the    trembling    lady    one    gallant    arm    he 

pressed  ; 

Flis  eyes  of  starry  midnight  were  beaming  still  with  love. 
And  in  his  hand  uplifted  he  held  the  jewelled  glove  ! 
The  firelight  floated  brightly  on  the  victims  of  the  dance. 
And   mocked   the   helpless  children    of  gay    and   queenly 

France. 

"  God  bless  our  far-off  dear  ones,  whom  we   shall   see  no 

more, 

And  safely  give  to  Gallia,  her  guardian  emperor! 
We   meet   our  deatli   together-          A   shriek— a  startling 

boom — 

And  sternly  closed  around  them  the  iron  bands  of  Doom  ! 
Gone  was  the  ducal  palace,  and  all  within  its  halls, 
While  woe  and  ruin  brooded  o'er  fated  Moscow's  walls  ! 


THE  BURNING  OF  MOSCOW. 

BY  way  of  prefix,  the  author  of  the  following  lines  has 
given  us  an  historical  account  of  the  transactions  which 
led  up  to  and  are  so  vividly  depicted  in  his  poem.  His 
narrative  is  so  brief  and  accurate  that  we  take  pleasure 
in  adopting  his  words.  He  says:  "The  action  of  the 
following  poem  commences  at  midnight  on  the  i5th  of 
September,  A.D.  1812.  The  city  had  been  fired  on  the 
night  of  the  I4th  ;  but  owing  to  the  stillness  of  the  air, 
and  the  exertions  of  Marshal  Mortier,  who  had  been  ap- 
pointed governor  of  the  city  by  Napoleon  with  the  com- 
mand of  the  Young  Guard,  it  had  been  extinguished.  On 
the  night  of  the  I5th,  however,  the  wind  was  so  strong 
that  it  overcame  the  exertions  of  the  wearied  troops. 
According  to  the  best  authorities,  the  city  burned  from 
the  1 5th  to  the  2Oth  constantly.  On  the  third  day  the 
firebrands,  borne  by  a  violent  northwest  wind,  set  fire  to 
one  of  the  towers  or  pavilions  of  the  Kremlin  adjoining 
the  arsenal  where  Lariboisiere,  commander-in-chief  of 
the  artillery,  had  caused  the  ammunition  of  the  artillery 
of  the  Guard  to  be  deposited.  Napoleon  had  taken  up 
his  quarters  in  the  Kremlin,  and  did  not  leave  it  till  the 
night  of  the  i6th,  after  it  was  surrounded  by  flames.  He 
then  transferred  his  headquarters  to  the  imperial  palace 
of  Petershoff,  about  a  league  from  the  outer  circuit  of  the 

282 


THE  BUKNING  OF  .MOSCOW.  283 

city  :  after  which  he  gave  orders  for  the  evacuation." 
"  We  left  Moscow,"  says  Gen.  Dumas,  "  under  a  real  rain 
of  fire.  The  wind  was  so  violent  that  it  carried  to  a  great 
distance  the  iron  plates  which  were  torn  from  the  roofs 
and  made  red-hot  by  the  flames.  The  feet  of  our  horses 
were  burnt.  It  is  impossible  to  form  an  idea  of  the  con- 
fusion that  prevailed  in  this  precipitate  evacuation.  The 
noise  of  the  fire  resembled  the  warring  of  the  waves  ;  it 
was  truly  a  tempest  in  an  ocean  of  fire.  We  bivouacked 
on  the  skirts  of  a  little  wood  from  which  we  could  behold 
this  frightful  spectacle — the  image  of  Hell."  Napoleon 
himself  said  :  ''  It  was  the  spectacle  of  a  sea  and  billows 
of  fire,  and  sky  and  clouds  of  flame.  Mountains  of  red 
rolling  flame,  like  immense  waves  of  the  sea,  alternately 
bursting  forth  and  elevating  themselves  to  skies  of  fire, 
and  then  sinking  into  the  ocean  of  flame  below.  Oh  !  it 
was  the  most  grand,  the  most  sublime,  and  the  most  ter- 
rific sight  the  world  ever  beheld." 

THE    HTRMXG    OF    MOSCOW. 

('(II  .    KlDOI.DN. 

How  often,  when  the  wished-for  prize  is  near, 

And  all  its  beauties  agitate  the  soul, 
Is  the  gay  smile  exchanged  for  sorrow's  tear, 

And  every  feeling  bursts  without  control  ? 
How  often  is  man's  feeble  arm  upraised 

In  opposition  to  unchanging  fate  ? 
How  often  is  the  hero  men  have  praised, 

Made,  but  by  great  circumstances,  great  ? 
Yet  would  I  not  decry  the  fate  of  him 

Before  whose  name   all  F.urope  once  couid  how  ; 


284  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Before  whose  brightness  other  flames  grow  dim, 

Whose  laurel  is  yet  green  upon  his  brow. 
No,  no,  I  \vould  not  pluck  one  laurel  leaf 

From  out  the  crown  Napoleon  proudly  won  ; 
The  first,  the  last,  with  reign  as  bright,  as  brief 

As  meteors,  rushing  headlong  to  the  sun. 
Aye,  proudly  could  I  worship  at  thy  shrine, 

Napoleon,  Europe's  greatest,  brightest  son  ; 
For  none  has  lived  whose  fame  can  equal  thine, 

In  cabinet  or  field,  save  our  own  Washington. 

'T  is  noon  of  night,  the  wind  is  high, 
And  clouds  and  tempests  shroud  the  sky, 
And  sleet,  and  snow,  and  wind  are  driven 
From  every  quarter  of  the  heaven  ; 
None  are  abroad  at  this  wild  hour, 

And  Moscow's  streets  deserted  lay 
For  show  and  pomp,  and  pride  and  power, 

Had  all  been  shorn  away. 
No  beauteous  moon  in  splendour  rolled 

And  tipped  with  gold  her  thousand  spires  ; 
No  twinkling  stars  their  love-tales  told. 

No  Borealis  lit  their  fires. 
'T  was  silence  all — save  when  a  blast 

More  keen  and  shrill  came  sweeping  by  ; 
The  snow  in  clouds  was  upward  cast, 

As  winds  were  warring  with  the  sky. 
Around,  the  snow  in  hillocks  piled. 

Each  hut  and  palace  covered  o'er  ; 
Man  shrank  aghast  from  scenes  so  wild, 

Each  moment  wilder  than  before. 
The  sentry  marched  his  lonely  round, 

Lonely  indeed  on  night  so  dire; 
lie  stops — what  is  that  startling  sound? 

The  Kremlin  sentry's  cry  of  "  fire." 


THE  BURNING  OF  MOSCOW.  28; 

What  !  ho  !  Mortier  !  awake  !  awake  ! 

But  Mortier's  ear  had  caught  the  sound, 
For  balmy  sleep  will  oft  forsake 

One  girt  with  dangerous  horrors  round. 
"  Fire  !  fire  !  "  the  sentries  loud  proclaim, 

The  dreadful  drama  has  begun  ; 
Moscow  is  wrapt  at  once  in  flame — 

From  every  spot  the  people  run. 
The  scene  had  opened — night  and  storm, 

And  fire  and  shouting  filled  the  air ; 
On  every  hand  was  loud  alarm, 

On  every  face  was  blank  despair. 
The  flames  arise — huge  balls  of  fire 

Appear  as  falling  from  the  clouds  ; 
Now  crashes  some  high  towering  spire, 

Forth  rush  with  shrieks  the  startled  crowds, 
Sullen  explosions  shake  the  earth, 

And  dull  and  rumbling  sounds  are  heard, 
Such  as  presage  an  earthquake's  birth, 

When  every  secret  depth  is  stirred  ; 
Then  bursts  the  flames  on  every  side 

The  clouds  seem  waves  of  liquid  fire. 
A  whirlwind  fierce  directs  the  tide 

That  rolls  o'er  Moscow  in  its  ire. 
Most  dreadful  night  ;  confusion  reigns, 

At  every  point  is  raging  fire; 
The  elements  have  burst  their  chains  ; 

And  still  grow  fiercer,  wilder,  higher. 
Onward  it  drives,  like  ocean-wave 

When  tempests  make  the  waters  rave. 
Mortier's  Young  Guard  amid  this  scene 

Of  awful  desolation  rushed  ; 
Blacked  and  begrimed,  they  spring  between 

The  crushing  and  the  crushed  ; 
More  swiftly  still  the  flames  arose, 


286  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  nobly,  yet  in  vain,  they  strove  ; 
They  seemed  to  triumph  o'er  their  foes, 
And  towards  the  Kremlin  drove. 

'T  is  morn,  't  is  noon,  'tis  night,  and  still 

The  city  burned  with  fiercer  glow  ; 
The  howling  storm  and  shouting  fill 

With  terror  friend  and  foe. 
Napoleon  holds  the  Kremlin  yet, 

But  watches  with  an  anxious  eye. 
Nor  leaves  it,  though  the  stern  Murat 

Beseeches  him  to  fly. 
He  paced  the  chamber  to  and  fro, 

The  element  comes  sweeping  nigher ; 
When  rises  from  the  crowd  below 

The  cry,  "  The  Kremlin  is  on  fire  !  " 
Slowly  he  left  the  palace  then 

With  sullen  movement  of  despair, 
Like  to  a  goaded  lion  when 

The  hunters  near  his  lair. 

Again  't  is  day — again  't  is  night ; 

The  hurricane  with  fiercer  blast 
Drives  o'er  the  city  in  its  might  ; 

The  burning  roofs  are  upward  cast. 
The  city  was  a  sea  of  flame ; 

The  heavens  a  canopy  of  fire  ; 
The  clouds  like  boiling  wave  became  ; 

Now  they  advance  and  now  retire  ; 
And  here  and  there  a  trembling  spire 

Looms  darkling,  like  a  ship's  tall  mast 
Above  this  desolation  dire  ; 

A  moment — and  't  is  downward  cast. 
Behold  that  palace,  proud  and  fair, 

That  rears  its  turrets  to  the  skies, 
Reels,  tumbles,  falls  in  ruins  there  ; 


THE  BURNING  OF  MOSCOW.  287 

And  crushed  beneath,  the  cottage  lies. 
The  mothers  gaze  with  tearful  eyes, 

Where  once  their  homes  and  children  smiled  ; 
The  infants  scream  with  piteous  cries, 

Affrighted  at  a  scene  so  wild  ; 
They  rush  along  the  fiery  street, 

Bearing  whate'er  they  love  the  most 
Or,  gathered  into  groups,  they  meet 

Death,  when  each  hope  is  lost. 
'T  is  done :  grim  Desolation  bends 

Her  form  where  once  a  city  rose, 
Destroyed  by  those  who  were  its  friends, 

To  save  it  from  its  foes. 
Now  may  we  pause,  the  shout  is  dumb, 

The  hurricane  is  stilled  at  last  ; 
No  more  is  heard  the  distant  hum, 

That  told  the  swiftly  coming  blast. 
The  fire  is  quenched,  save  here  and  there 

Bursts  fiercely  forth  a  fitful  flame  ; 
In  sullen  mood,  in  dire  despair, 

The  troops  retire  with  naught  but  fame. 
'T  is  silence,  sadness,  ruin  all, 

And  friend  and  foe  look  on  aghast  ; 
Does  it  presage  Napoleon's  fall, 

That  thus  he  should  be  checked  at  last  ? 
A  day  of  Empire,  brief  and  bright, 
T<>  set  at  last  in  endless  ni<rht. 


THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA. 

WHILE  the  idea  was  a  barbarous  one,  the  burning  of 
Moscow  by  the  Russians  had  that  of  sublime  devotion  to 
one's  country  in  it  which  would  have  ranked  the  origina- 
tor of  the  scheme,  had  he  then  lived,  high  up  among  the 
Roman  heroes  of  ancient  times.  In  a  modern,  civilised 
nation,  with  art,  refinement,  culture,  and  education  de- 
veloped as  they  are  to-day,  such  a  sacrifice,  even  to  save 
the  nation's  very  existence,  would  not  be  thought  of. 

After  the  fire  had  burned  itself  out  for  want  of  ma- 
terial to  feed  upon,  and  nothing  was  left  of  that  magnifi- 
cent city  but  the  massive  Kremlin,  Napoleon  and  his 
army  moved  back  within  its  walls  ;  he  taking  up  his 
quarters  at  the  Kremlin,  his  soldiers  doing  as  best  they 
could  out  of  the  ruins  which  surrounded  them.  Order 
prevailed,  and  all  the  machinery  of  a  well-governed 
municipality  was  set  in  motion.  Actors  and  singers  came 
from  Paris,  and  the  evening  entertainments  of  the  Tui- 
leries  were  revived  at  the  palace  of  the  Czar.  The  army 
was  fed,  clothed,  and  recruited  up  to  beyond  the  strength 
of  what  it  was  when  it  entered  the  city.  The  sick  and 
wounded  were  in  the  ranks  again,  and  everything  looked 
hopeful  for  a  successful  termination  of  the  campaign. 
For  over  a  month  this  delusion  \vas  indulged  in.  Alex- 
ander would  surely  soon  sue  for  peace,  thought  Napoleon. 

288 


THE  FRENCH  ARtfY  I.V  KUSS/A.  289 

and  so  he  lingered  on,  until,  one  day,  instead  of  the  peace- 
ful messenger  expected,  a  terrible  snow-storm  came  to 
tell  him  he  had  stayed  too  long.  Men  he  could  contend 
with,  but  a  Russian  winter  he  was  in  no  condition  to  con- 
front, and,  on  the  twenty-third  of  October,  a  retreat  was 
ordered  ;  a  retreat  which  was  to  leave  a  record  behind  it 
unparalleled  in  history  for  the  terrible  suffering  it  brought 
to  all  those  who  participated  in  it.  Beaten  nowhere  by 
mortal  foe,  the  elements  were  at  last  to  vanquish  the 
Grand  Army.  The  order  to  retreat  came  to  the  ears  of 
Napoleon's  veterans  as  a  new  sound,  unheard  of  before, 
and  it  was  in  sullen  silence  they  turned  their  backs  to  the 
enemy  and  their  faces  towards  home. 

Of  the  many  poems  written  on  the  subject  we  have 
chosen  the  following  two  as  embodying,  in  our  judgment, 
the  best  description  of  what  that  retreat  really  was.  One 
was  written  by  an  Englishman  ;  the  other  by  a  French- 
man, and  yet  how  near  alike,  putting  aside  the  personal 
animus  of  the  writers,  do  they  tell  the  awful  story. 

THK    l-RKXCH    ARMY    IX    RUSSIA. 

( iKotu;)'.  (  'KOI.V. 

Magnificence  of  ruin  !   what  has  time 
In  all  it  ever  gazed  upon  of  war, 
Of  the  wild  rage  of   storm,  or  deadly  clime, 
Seen,  with  that  battle's  vengeance  to  compare  ? 
How  glorious  shone  the  invader's  pomp  afar! 
Like  pampered  lions  from  the  spoil  they  came  ; 
The  land  before  them  silence  and  despair, 
The  land  behind  them  massacre  and   flame  ; 
Blood  will  have  tenfold  blood.      What  are  they  now  ? 

A  name. 

•y 


290  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Homeward  by  hundred  thousands,  column-deep, 
Broad  square,  loose  squadron,  rolling  like  the  flood, 
When  mighty  torrents  from  their  channels  leap, 
Rushed  through  the  land  the  haughty  multitude, 
Billow  on  endless  billow  ;  on  through  wood, 
O'er  rugged  hill,  down  sunless,  marshy  vale, 
The  death-devoted  moved,  to  clangour  rude 
Of  drum  and  horn,  and  dissonant  clash  of   mail, 
Glancing  disastrous  light  before  that  sunbeam  pale. 

Again  they  reached  thee,  Borodino  !  still 
Upon  the  loaded  soil  the  carnage  lay, 
The  human  harvest,  now  stark,  stiff,  and  chill. 
Friend,  foe,  stretched  thick  together,  clay  to  clay  ; 
In  vain  the  startled  legions  burst  away  ; 
The  land  was  all  one  naked  sepulchre ; 
The  shrinking  eye  still  glanced  on  grim  decay, 
Still  did  the  hoof  and  wheel  their  passage  tear, 
Through  cloven  helms  and  arms,  and  corpses  mouldering 
drear. 

The  field  was  as  they  left  it ;   fosse  and  fort 
Steaming  with  slaughter  still,  but  desolate  ; 
The  cannon  flung  dismantled  by  its  port  ; 
Each  knew  the  mound,  the  black  ravine  whose  strait 
Was  won  and  lost,  and  thronged  with  dead,  till  fate 
Had  fixed  upon  the  victor, — half  undone. 
There  was  the  hill,  from  which  their  eyes  elate 
Had  seen  the  burst  of  Moscow's  golden  zone  ; 
But  death  was  at  their  heels,  they  shuddered   and   rushed 
on. 

The  hour  of  vengeance  strikes.      Hark  to  the  gale  ! 
As  it  bursts  hollow  through  the  rolling  clouds, 
That  from  the  north  in  sullen  grandeur  saj[ 


THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA.  2QI 

Like  floating  Alps.     Advancing  darkness  broods 
Upon  the  wild  horizon,  and  the  woods, 
Now  sinking  into  brambles,  echo  shrill, 
As  the  gust  sweeps  them,  and  those  upper  floods 
Shoot  on  their  leafless  boughs  the  sleet-drops  chill. 
That  on  the  hurrying  crowds  in  freezing  showers  distil. 

They  reach  the  wilderness  !     The  majesty 
Of  solitude  is  spread  before  their  gaze, 
Stern  nakedness, — dark  earth  and  wrathful  sky. 
If  ruins  were  there,  they  long  had  ceased  to  blaze  ; 
If  blood  was  shed,  the  ground  no  more  betrays, 
Even  by  a  skeleton,  the  crime  of  man  ; 
Behind  them  rolls  the  deep  and  drenching  haze. 
Wrapping  their  rear  in  night  ;"  before  their  van 
The  struggling  daylight  shows  the  unmeasured  desert  wan. 

Still  on  they  sweep,  as  if  their  hurrying  march 
Could  bear  them  from  the  rushing  of  His  wheel 
Whose  chariot  is  the  whirlwind.      Heaven's  clear  arch 
At  once  is  covered  with  a  livid  veil  ; 
In  mixed  and  fighting  heaps  the  deep  clouds  reel  : 
Upon  the  dense  horizon  hangs  the  sun, 
In  sanguine  light,  an  orb  of  burning  steel  ; 
The  snows  wheel  down  through  twilight,  thick  and  dun  ; 
Now  tremble,  men  of  blood,  the  judgment  has  begun  ! 

The  trumpet  of  the  northern  winds  has  blown. 
And  it  is  answered  by  the  dying  roar 
Of  armies  on  that  boundless  field  o'crthrown  ; 
Now  in  the  awful  gusts  the  deserts  hoar 
Is  tempested,  a  sea  without  a  shore, 
Lifting  its  feathery  waves.      The  legions  fly  ; 
Volley  on  volley  do\vn  the  hailstones  pour; 
Blind,  famished,  frozen,  mad,  the  wanderers  die. 
And  clvinir,  hear  the  storm  but  wilder  thunder  bv. 


2Q2  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Such  is  the  hand  of  Heaven  !     A  human  blow 
Had  crushed  them  in  the  flight,  or  flung  the  chain 
Round  them  where  Moscow's  stately  towers  were  low 
And  all  bestilled.     But  thou  !  thy  battle-plain 
Was  a  whole  empire  ;  that  devoted  train 
Must  war  from  day  to  day  with  storm  and  gloom, 
(Man  following,  like  the  wolves,  to  rend  the  slain) 
Must  lie  from  night  to  night  as  in  a  tomb, 
Must  fly,  toil,  bleed  for  home  ;  yet  never  see  that  home. 

THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

It  snowed.     A  defeat  was  our  conquest  red  ! 

For  once  the  Eagle  was  hanging  its  head. 

Sad  days!   the  Emperor  turned  slowly  his  back 

On  smoking  Moscow,  blent  orange  and  black. 

The  winter  burst,  avalanche-like,  to   reign 

Over  the  endless  blanched  sheet  of  the  plain. 

Nor  chief,  nor  banner  in  order  could  keep, 

The  wolves  of  warfare  were  'wildered  like  sheep. 

The  wings  from  centre  could  hardly  be  known 

Through  snow  o'er  horses  and  carts  o'erthrown, 

Where  froze  the  wounded.      In  the  bivouacs  forlorn 

Strange  sights  and  gruesome  met  the  breaking  morn  : 

Mute  were  the  bugles,  while  the  men  bestrode 

Steeds  turned  to  marble,  unheeding  the  goad. 

The  shells  and  bullets  came  down  with  the  snow 

As  though  the  heavens  hated  these  poor  troops  below. 

Surprised  at  trembling,  though  it  was  with  cold, 

Who  ne'er  had  trembled  out  of  fear,  the  veterans  bold 

Marched  stern  ;  to  grizzled  moustache  hoar-frost  clung 

'Xeath  banners  that  in  leaden  masses  hung. 

It  snowed,  went  snowing  still.     And  chill  the  breeze 

Whistled  upon  the  glassy,  endless  seas, 


THE   RETREAT  FROM   MOSCOW.  293 

Where  naked  feet  on,  on  for  ever  went, 

With  naught  to  eat,  and  not  a  sheltering  tent. 

They  were  not  living  troops  as  seen  in  war, 

But  merely  phantoms  of  a  dream,  afar 

In  darkness  wandering,  amid  the  vapour  dim, — 

A  mystery  ;  of  shadows  a  procession  grim, 

Nearing  a  blackening  sky,  into  its  rim. 

Frightful,  since  boundless,  solitude  behold 

Where  only  Nemesis  wove,  mute  and  cold, 

A  net  all  snowy  with  its  soft  meshes  dense, 

A  shroud  of  magnitude  for  host  immense  ; 

Till  every  one  felt  as  if  left  alone 

In  a  wide  wilderness  where  no  light  shone. 

To  die,  with  pity  none,  and  none  to  see 

That  from  this  mournful  realm  none  should  get  free. 

Their  foes  the  frozen  North  and  Czar — That,  worse. 

Cannons  were  broken  up  in  haste  accurst 

To  burn  the  frames  and  make  the  pale  fire  high, 

Where  those  lay  down  who  never  woke,  or  woke  to  die. 

Sad  and  commingled,  groups  that  blindly  fled 

Were  swallowed  smoothly  by  the  desert  dread. 

'Neath  folds  of  blankness,  monuments  were  raised 

O'er  regiments.     And  History,  amazed, 

Could  not  record  the  ruin  of  this  retreat, 

Unlike  a  downfall  known  before  the  defeat 

Of  Hannibal — reversed  and  wrapped  in  gloom! 

Of  Attila,  when  nations  met  their  doom  ! 

Perished  an  army — fled  French  glory  then. 

Though  there  the  Emperor  !  he  stood  and  ga/.ed 

At  the  wild  havoc,  like  a  monarch  da/.ed 

In  woodland  hoar,  who  felt  the  shrieking  saw 

He,  living  oak,  beheld  his  branches  fall,  with  awe. 

Chiefs,  soldiers,  comrades  died.      But  still  warm  love 

Kept  those  that  rose  all  dastard  fear  above, 

As  on  his  tent  they  saw  his  shadow  pass— 


294  ^    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Backwards  and  forwards,  for  they  credited,  alas  ! 

His  fortune's  star!  it  could  not,  could  not  be 

That  he  had  not  his  work  to  do — a  destiny  ? 

To  hurl  him  headlong  from  his  high  estate, 

Would  be  high  treason  in  his  bondman,  Fate, 

But  all  the  while  he  felt  himself  alone, 

Stunned  with  disasters  few  have  ever  known. 

Sudden,  a  fear  came  o'er  his  troubled  soul, 

What  more  was  written  on  the  Future's  scroll  ? 

Was  this  an  expiation  ?     It  must  be,  yea  ! 

Returned  to  God  for  one  enlightening  ray. 

"  Is  this  the  vengeance,  Lord  of  Hosts?  "  he  sighed, 

But  the  first  murmur  on  his  parched  lips  died. 

"  Is  this  the  vengeance  ?     Must  my  glory  set  ?  " 

A  pause  :  his  name  was  called  ;  of  flame  a  jet 

Sprang  in  the  darkness — a  Voice  answered  :     "  No  !  Not 

yet." 

Outside  still  fell  the  smothering  snow. 
Was  it  a  voice  indeed  ?  or  but  a  dream  ! 
It  was  the  vulture's,  but  how  like  the  sea-bird's  scream. 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 

No  body  of  men  ever  went  through  the  same  trials  and 
came  out  of  them  with  a  better  record  than  did  the  Grand 
Army  of  France  on  its  retreat  from  Moscow.  The  soldiers 
composing  that  army,  it  is  true,  were  but  human  and  many 
proved  weak  and  cowardly  when  the  crucial  test  came  to 
be  applied  ;  but,  as  an  offset  to  this  side  of  the  story,  we 
find  the  history  of  that  retreat  full  of  recitals  of  noble 
deeds  of  heroic  daring  and  self-sacrifice.  Marshal,  grena- 
dier, and  drummer-boy  stood  ever  ready  to  suffer  if  some 
more  needy  might  possibly  profit  thereby.  In  November, 
in  the  midst  of  a  blinding  snow-storm,  the  Grand  Army 
(or  what  was  left  of  it),  with  the  exception  of  Marshal 
Ney's  corps,  crossed  the  Dnieper.  I  low  different  was 
the  passage  then  from  what  it  had  been  a  few  months 
before,  in  the  full  glow  of  a  summer's  day,  with  victory 
and  glory  attending  every  forward  movement.  Then 
every  soldier  was  looking  towards  Smolensk  as  the  place 
where  food,  shelter,  and  rest  were  to  be  found  ;  now  they 
were  fleeing  from  the  city  as  if  it  were  plague-stricken. 
Ney,  lost  in  the  snow,  and  Davoust,  grimly  holding  the 
enemy  in  check  while  the  Dnieper  was  being  crossed, 
were  not  the  only  heroes  of  the  Russian  campaign.  The 
incident  mentioned  in  the  following  poem  is  but  an  illus- 
tration of  the  main-  that  occurred  during  that  memorable 
retreat. 


296  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

THE    FATHER   OF    THE    REGIMENT. 

WALTER  THORNBURY. 

Thick  snow- wreaths  weighed  upon  the  firs, 

Snow  shrouded  all  the  plain, 
Snow  brooded  in  the  dusky  clouds. 

Snow  matted  the  chill  rain, 
Snow  filled  the  valleys  to  the  brim. 

Snow  whitened  all  the  air  ; 
The  snowdrifts  on  the  Dnieper  road 

Blinded  us  with  their  glare. 

The  white  snow  on  our  eagles  weighed, 

It  capped  each  crimson  plume  ; 
Knee-deep  it  now  began  to  rise, 

Striking  us  all  with  gloom. 
It  clotted  on  our  waggon  wheels, 

And  on  our  knapsacks  weighed, 
It  clung  to  every  soldier's  breast, 

And  every  bayonet-blade. 

It  quenched  the  shells  and  dulled  the  shot 

That  round  us  faster  fell, 
As  all  our  bayonets  glancing  moved 

Down  the  long  Russian  dell 
That  to  the  Dnieper  river  bore. 

Ney  battled  in  our  rear  ; 
Griloff  was  nearly  on  us  then, 

The  Cossacks  gathered  near. 

The  Russian  lancers  charged  our  guards, 

Our  grenadiers,  and  horse  ; 
The  Russian  serfs,  with  axe  and  knife, 

Were  gathering  in  force, 
As  floods  of  us  with  carts  and  <runs 


THE   FA  THER    OF    THE   REGIME*  T. 

Bore  down  upon  the  ridge 
That  led,  by  snowy  swathes  and  slopes, 
Unto  the  Dnieper  bridge. 

The  sun,  a  dull  broad  spot  of  blood, 

Smouldered  through  icy  clouds  ; 
The  snow,  in  blinding  heavy  flakes, 

Was  weaving  soldiers'  shrouds. 
Here  lay  a  powder-waggon  split, 

Its  wheels  all  black  and  torn, 
And  there  a  gun  half  buried  in 

The  ruts  its  weight  had  worn. 

Drums  splashed  with  blood  and  broken  swords 

Were  scattered  everywhere  ; 
Our  shattered  muskets,  shakos  pierced. 

Lay  p"artly  buried  there. 
Guns  foundered,  chests  of  cartridge  burst 

Lay  by  the  dead  defaced  ; 
By  hasty  graves  of  hillocked  snow 

You  could  our  path  have  traced. 

Still  one  battalion  firm  was  left, 

Made  up  of  Davoust's  men, 
"  The  Vieille  Roche  "  we  called  the  band 

In  admiration  then. 
The  "  Father  of  the  Regiment," 

De  Maubourg,  led  us  on, 
With  the  old  Roman's  iron  will. 

Though  hope  had  almost  gone. 

Two  sons  he  had,  who  guarded  him 

From  every  Cossack  spear; 
One  was  a  grenadier,  whose  heart 

Mad  never  known  a  fear; 


298  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  other  boy  a  lusty  drum 

Beat  by  his  father's  side  ; 
I  often  saw  the  father  smile 

To  see  the  stripling's  pride. 

There  came  a  rush  of  ponderous  guns, 

Grinding  the  red-churned  snow, 
Making  their  way  o'er  dying  men 

Unto  the  bridge  below. 
Ney  gathered  close  his  prickly  squares 

To  keep  the  Russians  back, 
For  fast  those  yelling  Cossacks  came 

Upon  our  bleeding  track. 

Maubourg  was  there  erect  and  firm 

I  saw  him  through  the  fire; 
He  stooped  to  kiss  a  dying  friend. 

Then  seemed  to  rise  the  higher. 
Great  gaps  the  Russian  cannon  tore 

Through  our  retreating  ranks, 
As  slowly,  grimly,  Ney  drew  back 

Unto  the  river  banks. 

Shot  in  the  knee  I  saw  Maubourg, 

Borne  by  his  sons — slow — slow  ; 
They  staggered  o'er  the  muddy  ruts 

And  through  the  clogging  snow. 
"  Fly,  leave  me,  children  !      Dear  to  France 

Young  lives  arc,"  then  he  said. 
They  both  refused  :  a  round  shot  came, 

And  struck  the  eldest — dead. 

The  boy  knelt  weeping  by  his  side, 

Trying  in  vain  to  lift 
The  old  man's  body,  which  but  sank 

The  deeper  in  the  drift. 


THE  FATHER   OF    THE   REG  IMF  NT.  299 

"  Leave  me,  my  child  !  "  he  cried  again. 
"  Think  of  your  mother, — go. 
We  meet  in  heaven.     I  will  stay, 
Death  is  no  more  my  foe." 

The  boy  fell  weeping  on  his  breast, 

And  there  had  gladly  died, 
But  I  released  his  clutching  hands, 

And  tore  them  from  his  side. 
One  kiss— no  more — and  then  he  went, 

Beating  his  drum  for  us; 
I  did  not  dare  to  turn  and  see 

The  old  man  perish  thus. 

Again  there  came  a  rush  of  spears, 

But  we  drove  on  the  guns, 
We — bronze  and  iron  with  the  heat 

( )f  the  Egyptian  suns. 
The  eagles  led, — our  bayonets  pressed 

Over  the  Dnieper  bridge  ; 
Ney  was  the  last  to  turn  and  pass 

Down  the  long,  gory  ridge. 

The  boy  became  a  marshal,  sirs; 

I  saw  him  yesterday 
Talking  to  Sotilt,  who  loves  right  well 

To  chat  of  siege  and  fray. 
He  often  finds  our  barracks  out 

And  comes  to  see  us  all, 
We  who  escaped  from  Moscow's  fire, 

From  Russian  sword  and  ball. 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA. 

HUMAN  foresight  and  skill  could  not  have  done  more 
than  was  done  by  Napoleon  to  prevent  the  awful  sacrifice 
of  life  which  took  place  at  the  passage  of  the  Beresina. 
What  was  left  of  the  army  itself,  had  it  not  been  encum- 
bered by  more  than  its  own  number  of  stragglers,  would, 
no  doubt,  have  succeeded  in  crossing  the  river  with  but 
the  ordinary  loss  of  such  a  manoeuvre,  undertaken  in  the 
face  of  a  desperate  foe.  But  fate  seemed  cruel,  and  those 
who  had  suffered  so  much  on  account  of  the  needless 
invasion  of  Russia,  were  to  suffer  still  more  before  France 
and  home  were  reached.  The  horrors  of  that  appalling 
catastrophe  are  vividly  pictured  in  the  following  lines. 

PASSAGE    OF    THE    BERESINA. 

LVDIA    HfNTLEY  SlGOfRN  K  V. 

On  with  the  cohorts, — on  !     A  darkening  cloud 
Of  Cossack  lances  hovers  o'er  the  heights  ; 
And  hark  ! — the  Russian  thunder  on  the  rear 
Thins  the  retreating  ranks. 

The  haggard  French, 

Like  summoned  spectres,  facing  toward  their  foes, 
And  goading  on  the  lean  and  dying  steeds 
That  totter  'neath  their  huge  artillery, 
Give  desperate  battle.     Wrapt  in  volumed  smoke 
A  dense  and  motley  mass  of  hurried  forms 
Rush  towards  the  Beresina.      Soldiers  mix 

300 


PASSAGE   OF    THE   B  EKE  SIN  A.  301 

Undisciplined  amid  the  feebler  throng, 

While  from  the  rough  ravines  the  rumbling  cars 

That  bear  the  sick  and  wounded,  with  the  spoils, 

Torn  rashly  from  red  Moscow's  sea  of  flame, 

Line  the  steep  banks.     Chilled  with  the  endless  shade 

Of  black  pine-forests,  where  unslumbering  winds 

Make  bitter  music, — every  heart  is  sick 

For  the  warm  breath  of  its  far,  native  vales, 

Vine-clad  and  beautiful.      Pale,  meagre  hands 

Stretched  forth  in  eager  misery,  implore 

Quick  passage  o'er  the  flood.     But  there  it  rolls, 

'Neath  its  ice-curtain,  horrible  and  hoarse, 

A  fatal  barrier  'gainst  its  country's  foes. 

The  combat  deepens.     Lo  !  in  one  broad  flash 

The  Russian  sabre  gleams,  and  the  wild  hoof 

Treads  out  despairing  life. 

With  maniac  haste 

They  throng  the  bridge,  those  fugitives  of  France, 
Reckless  of  all,  save  that  last,  desperate  chance, 
Rush,  struggle,  strive,  the  powerful  thrust  the  weak, 
And  crush  the  dying. 

Hark  !  a  thundering  crash, 
A  cry  of  horror!      Down  the  broken  bridge 
Sinks,  and  the  wretched  multitude  plunge  deep 
'Xeath  the  devouring  tide.     That  piercing  shriek 
With  which  they  took  their  farewell  of  the  sky, 
Did  haunt  the  living,  as  some  doleful  ghost 
Troubleth  the  fever-dream.      Some  for  a  while, 
With  ice  and  death  contending,  sink  and  rise, 
While  some  in  wilder  agony  essay 
To  hold  their  footing  on  that  tossing  mass 
Of  miserable  life,  making  their  path 
O'er  palpitating  bosoms.      'T  is  in  vain  ! 


302  A    METRICAL    HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  keen  pang  passes  and  the  satiate  flood 
Shuts  silent  o'er  its  prey. 

The  severed  host 

Stand  gazing  on  each  shore.     The  gulf, — the  dead 
Forbid  their  union.     One  sad  throng  is  waned 
To  Russia's  dungeons,  one  with  shivering  haste 
Spread  o'er  the  wild,  through  toil  and  pain  to  hew 
Their  many  roads  to  death.     From  desert  plains, 
From  sacked  and  solitary  villages 

Gaunt  Famine  springs  to  seize  them  ;  Winter's  wrath, 
Unresting  day  or  night,  with  blast  and  storm. 
And  one  eternal  magazine  of  frost, 
Smites  the  astonished  victims. 

God  of  Heaven  ! 

Warrest  thou  with  France,  that  thus  thine  elements 
Do  fight  against  her  sons  ?     Yet  on  they  press, 
Stern,  rigid,  silent, — every  bosom  steeled 
By  the  strong  might  of  its  own  misery 
Against  all  sympathy  of  kindred  ties. 
The  brother  on  his  fainting  brother  treads  ; 
Friend  tears  from  friend  the  garment  and  the  bread,— 
That  last,  scant  morsel,  which  his  quivering  lip 
Hoards  in  its  death-pang.     Round  the  midnight  fires, 
That  fiercely  through  the  startled  forest  blaze, 
The  dreaming  shadows  gather,  madly  pleased 
To  bask  and  scorch  and  perish, — with  their  limbs 
Crisped  like  the  martyr's,  and  their  heads  fast  sealed 
To  the  frost-pillow  of  their  fearful  rest. 
Turn  back,  turn  back,  thou  fur-clad  emperor, 
Thus  toward  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries 
Flying  with  breathless  speed.     Yon  meagre  forms, 
Yon  breathing  skeletons,  with  tattered  robes, 
And  bare  and  bleeding  feet,  and  matted  locks, 


PASSAGE   OF    THE  BERESINA.  303 

Are  these  the  high  and  haughty  troops  of  France, 

The  buoyant  conscripts,  who  from  their  blest  homes 

Went  gayly  at  thy  bidding  ?     When  the  cry 

Of  weeping  Love  demands  her  cherished  ones. 

The  nursed  upon  her  breast : — the  idol-gods 

Of  her  deep  worship, — wilt  thou  coldly  point 

The  Beresina, — the  drear  hospital, 

The  frequent  snow-mound  on  the  unsheltered  march. 

Where  the  lost  soldier  sleeps! 

O  War  !  War  !  War  ! 

Thou  false  baptised,  who  by  thy  vaunted  name 
Of  glory  stealest  o'er  the  ear  of  man 
To  rive  his  bosom  with  thy  thousand  darts, 
Disrobed  of  pomp  and  circumstance,  stand  forth, 
And  show  thy  written  league  with  sin  and  death. 
Yes,  ere  ambition's  heart  is  seared  and  sold 
And  desolated,  bid  him  mark  thine  end 
And  count  thy  wages. 

The  proud  victor's  plume. 

The  hero's  trophied  fame,  the  warrior's  wreath 
Of  blood-dashed  laurel, — what  will  these  avail 
The  spirit  parting  from  material  things  ? 
One  slender  leaflet  from  the  tree  of  peace, 
Borne,  dove-like,  o'er  the  waste  and  warring  earth, 
Is  better  passport  at  the  gate  of  Heaven. 


THE  FLIGHT. 

HISTORIANS  do  not  agree  upon  the  question  whether 
or  not  Napoleon  should  have  left  the  army  before  it  was 
safely  out  of  Russian  territory.  Most  of  them,  however, 
concur  in  the  opinion  that  good  policy  demanded  his 
presence  at  Paris,  and  that  once  there  he  would  be  able 
to  do  more  towards  saving  the  army  than  he  possibly 
could  by  remaining  at  headquarters ;  but  they  differ 
materially  when  they  come  to  the  moral  part  of  the  ques- 
tion. However  right  or  wrong  his  critics,  Napoleon  him- 
self thought,  directly  after  the  crossing  of  the  Beresina, 
that  his  presence  was  needed  more  at  home  than  with  his 
comrades  in  the  field,  and  on  the  fifth  of  December  he 
turned  the  command  of  the  army  over  to  Murat  and  set 
out  for  Paris.  He,  evidently,  made  a  mistake  in  trusting 
his  brother-in-law  the  way  he  did,  and  no  doubt  it  would 
have  been  better  for  the  immediate  welfare  of  the  army 
could  he  have  remained  in  person  with  it.  But  the  situ- 
ation was  a  critical  one.  The  near  success  of  Malet's 
conspiracy,  based  as  it  was  merely  upon  a  forged  report 
of  his  death,  proved  ho\v  necessary  it  was  becoming  for 
Napoleon  to  keep  himself  before  his  people  at  Paris. 
His  star  was  on  the  decline.  So  many  mourning  house- 
holds had  cast  a  shadow  over  its  brilliancy,  and  nothing 
but  another  Austerlitx  could  save  it  from  total  eclipse. 

3r->4 


THE   FLIGHT.  305 

The  magic  of  his  presence  was  the  great  hope  of  his 
friends.  The  English  writers,  as  usual,  took  advantage 
of  Napoleon's  misfortune  ;  and  the  subject  of  his  leaving 
the  army  was  handled  by  them  in  a  way  not  at  all  com- 
plimentary to  his  character  or  to  his  courage. 

TIIK    FI.IGIIT. 

ANON. 

Bonaparte  flew  off  in  a  pet, 

On  a  sledge,  over  deep  Russian  snow, 

To  proclaim  to  the  world  he  was  beat, 
And  had  met  a  complete  overthrow. 

To  Paris  he  hied  him  away, 

Stealing  home  like  a  thief  in  the  night  ; 
Afraid  to  approach  it  by  day, 

Lest  the  people  might  view  his  sad  plight. 

And  calling  revenge  for  their  friends. 

Left  to  perish  midst  Russia's  bleak  wild. 

The  child  for  his  father  demands, 
The  mother  cries  loud  for  her  child. 

What  answer  the  Ruffian  could  make, 

'T  is  hard  for  one's  thoughts  to  conceive  ; 

But  sure  on  his  throne  he  must  shake, 
And  his  horrors  no  art  can  relieve. 

In  vain  may  he  write  Bulletins, 

Heaping  lies  upon  lies  as  before, 
The  truth  now  too  naked  is  seen, 

And  his  slaves  will  believe  him  no  more. 

But  rising  en  masse  through  the  realm. 

Break  their  chains  on  the  murderer's  head. 


306  A    METRICAL   IIISTOXY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

In  his  fulness  of  sin  overwhelm 

Him,  and  lay  the  wretch  low  with  the  dead. 

Then  may  Freedom  revisit  their  lands, 
And  Europe's  deep  wrongs  be  redress'd, 

When  a  Tyrant  no  longer  commands, 
The  people  no  more  are  oppress'd. 

"  fa  Ira  !  "  then  let  every  one  sing, 
When  these  joyous  events  shall  arise, 

Peace  will  come  then  with  balm  on  her  wing, 
And  Gratitude's  voice  reach  the  skies. 


TO  NAPOLEON,  FLYING  FROM  WILNA. 

WHAT  Napoleon's  thoughts  were,  as,  wrapped  in  si- 
lence and  gloom,  he  flew  over  the  barren,  inhospitable 
snows  towards  warm  and  sunny  France,  no  one  could 
know.  Behind  him  was  the  starved  and  frozen  wreck 
of  the  grandest  army  he  had  ever  led  into  battle  ;  before 
him  lowered  the  dark  clouds  of  doubt  and  unrest  ;  and 
treason  confronted  him  in  the  guise  of  many  whom  he 
had  loaded  with  favours.  Had  his  star  betrayed  him  into 
making  the  fatal  mistake  of  his  life  ;  or  was  he  again  to 
lead  his  legions  on  to  greater  victories  than  they  had  yet 
won  ?  Impenetrable  were  his  thoughts.  Not  even  the 
keen  eye  of  an  Englishman  could  pierce  the  veil  which 
concealed  so  well  that  wonderful  mind. 

TO    NAPOLEON,    FLYING    FROM    \\ILNA. 

K.   A.    I  >AVKNI'<)R  1  . 

Lone  Fugitive,  where  are  the  throngs  that  late 

Thou  led'st  in  martial  pomp  ?    \Yell  may'st  thou  start  ! 

Fallen  are  unnumber'd  legions  !  small  the  part 
That  lives,  to  curse  thee  with  a  rancorous  hate. 
Close  at  thy  heels  the  Russ,  in  victor  state. 

Comes  thundering  on  ;  and  terror  chills  thy  heart. 

In  every  hand  thou  see'st  of  death  the  dart. 
And  hear'st  in  every  bree/e  the  voice  of   fute. 


308  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Proud  Lord,  thy  boasted  star  with  dimmer  light 

Begins  to  burn  !      In  solitary  woe 
Thus  ever  may'st  thou  fly,  and  wild  affright. 

So  Persia's  king,  his  countless  hosts  laid  low, 
Urged  o'er  the  insulted  wave  his  lonely  flight, 

And    shuddering,  thought   each    sound   announc'd   the 
vengeful  foe. 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW. 

THE  Abbe  de  Pradt,  then  French  Ambassador  at  \Yur- 
sa\v,  gives  a  detailed  account  in  his  Embassy  to  Warsaw  in 
1812,  of  the  interview  he  had  with  Napoleon,  as  the  Em- 
peror and  those  who  accompanied  him  passed  through 
that  city  on  their  way  to  Paris.  It  is  this  story  Mr. 
Thornbury  has  taken  for  the  basis  of  the  principal  scene 
pictured  in  his  poem,  and  it  is  the  Abbe  himself  who  is 
there  represented  as  narrating  the  occurrence.  Xo  one 
of  Napoleon's  friends  has  ever  believed  the  story  as 
told  by  Pradt.  It  is  full  of  prejudice  and  extravagance, 
and  reads  more  like  a  caricature  than  an  effort  at  truth 
telling.  What  is  said  about  the  condition  and  conduct 
of  the  wretched  remnant  of  the  Grand  Army  is  nearer 
the  mark.  But  the  story,  as  a  whole,  is  a  curious  one,  and 
it  will  profit  the  student  of  Napoleonic  history  to  read  it 
in  its  entirety. 

THK    RKTKKAT    FROM    MOSCOW. 
A>  it  appearc'l  to  a  certain  Ahlic,  a'.  Warsaw,  l>ereml>er  10.  IMJ. 

\V.\I.1  KK   'I'll'  'KMH'HN  . 

The  yellow  snow-fog  curdled  thick. 
Dark,  brooding,  dull,  and  brown. 

About  the  ramparts,  hiding  all 
The  steeples  of   the  town  ; 


3IO  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  icicles,  as  thick  as  beams, 
Hung  down  from  every  roof, 

When  all  at  once  we  heard  a  sound 
As  of   a  muffled  hoof. 

'T  was  nothing  but  a  soldier's  horse. 

All  riderless  and  torn 
With  bullets  ;  scarce  his  bleeding  legs 

Could  reach  the  gate.     A  morn 
Of  horror  broke  upon  us  then  ; 

We  listened,  but  no  drum — 
Only  a  sullen,  distant  roar, 

Telling  us  that  they  come. 

Next,  slowly  staggering  through  the  fog, 

A  grenadier  reeled  past, 
A  bloody  turban  round  his  head, 

His  pallid  face  aghast. 
Behind  him,  with  an  arm  bound  up 

WTith  half  a  Russian  flag, 
Came  one — then  three — the  last  one  sopped 

His  breast  with  crimson  rag. 

All  day  the  frozen,  bleeding  men 

Came  pouring  through  the  place  ; 
Drums  broken,  colours  torn  to  shreds. 

Foul  wounds  on  every  face. 
Black  powder-waggons,  scorched  and  split, 

Broad  wheels  caked  thick  with  snow, 
Red  bayonets  bent,  and  swords  that  still 

Were  reeking  from  the  blow. 

The  ground  was  strewn  with  epaulettes, 
Letters,  and  cards,  and  songs  ; 

The  barrels,  leaking  drops  of  gold. 
Were  trampled  by  the  throngs. 


THE  RETREAT  I- ROM   MOSCOW.  311 

A  brutal,  selfish,  goring  mob, 

Yet  here  and  there  a  trace 
Of  the  divine  shone  out,  and  lit 

A  gashed  and  suffering  face. 

Here  came  a  youth,  who  on  his  back, 

His  dying  father  bore  ; 
With  bandaged  feet  the  brave  youth  limped, 

Slow,  shuddering,  dripping  gore. 
And  even  'mid  the  trampling  crowd, 

Maimed,  crippled  by  the  frost, 
I  found  that  every  spark  of  good 

\Vas  not  extinct  and  lost. 

Deep  in  the  ranks  of  savage  men 

I  saw  two  grenadiers 
Leading  their  corporal,  his  breast 

Stabbed  by  the  Cossack  spears. 
He  saved  that  boy,  whose  tearful  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  the  three — 
Although  too  weak  to  beat  his  drum 

Still  for  his  company. 

Half-stripped,  or  wrapped  in  furs  and 

The  broken  ranks  went  on  ; 
They  ran  if  anyone  called  out 

"  The  Cossacks  of  the  Don  !  " 
The  whispered  rumour,  like  a  fire, 

Spreads  fast  from  street  to  street, 
With  boding  look  and  shaking  head 

The  staring  gossips  meet. 

"  Ten  thousand  horses  every  night 

Were  smitten  by  the  frost  ; 
Full  thirty  thousand  rank  and  file 

In  Beresina  lost. 


312  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  Cossacks  fill  their  caps  with  gold 

The  Frenchmen  fling  away. 
Napoleon  was  shot  the  first, 

And  only  lived  a  day — 

"  They  say  that  Caulaincourt  is  lost — 

The  guns  are  left  behind  : 
God's  curse  has  fallen  on  these  thieves — 

He  sent  the  snow  and  wind." 
Tired  of  the  clatter  and  the  noise, 

I  sought  an  inner  room, 
Where  twenty  wax-lights,  starry  clear, 

Drove  off  the  fog  and  gloom. 

I  took  my  wanton  Ovid  down, 

And  soon  forgot  the  scene, 
As  through  my  dreams  1  saw  arise 

The  rosy-bosomed  queen. 
My  wine  stood  mantling  in  the  glass 

(The  goblet  of  Voltaire), 
I  sipped  and  dozed,  and  dozed  and  sipped, 

Slow  rocking  in  my  chair, 
When  open  flew  the  bursting  door, 

And  Caulaincourt  stalked  in — 
Tall,  gaunt,  and  wrapped  in  frozen  furs 

Hard  frozen  to  his  skin. 

The  wretched  hag  of  the  low  inn 

Puffed  at  the  sullen  fire 
Of  spitting  wood,  that  hissed  and  smoked 

There  stood  the  Jove  whose  ire 
But  lately  set  the  world  aflame, 

Wrapped  in  a  green  pelisse, 
Fur-lined,  and  stiff  with  half-burnt  lace, 

Trying  to  seem  at  ease. 


THE  RE  TA'EA  T  FROM  At 0 SCO  {V.  313 

"  Bali !    Du  sublime  au  ridicule 

II  n'y  a  qu'un  pas," 
He  said.     "  The  rascals  think  they  'vc  made 

A  comet  of  my  star. 
The  army  broken  ? — dangers? — pish  ! 

I  did  not  bring  the  frost. 
Levy  ten  thousand  Poles,  Duroc— 

Who  tells  me  we  have  lost  ? 

"  I  beat  them  everywhere,  Murat — 

It  is  a  costly  game  ; 
But  nothing  venture,  nothing  win — 

I  'm  sorry  now  we  came. 
That  burning  Moscow  was  a  deed 

Worthy  of  ancient  Rome — 
Mind  that  I  gild  the  Invalides 

To  match  the  Kremlin  dome. 

"  Well?  well  as  Beelzebub  himself  !  " 

He  leaped  into  the  sleigh 
Sent  for  to  bear  the  Caesar  off 

Upon  his  ruthless  way. 
A  flash  of  fire  ! — the  court-yard  stones 

Snapped  out  — the  landlord  cheered — 
In  a  hell-gulf  of  pitchy  dark 

The  carriage  disappeared. 


BONAPARTE'S  RETURN    TO  PARIS,  INCOG. 

NAPOLEON  reached  Paris  on  his  return  from  Moscow 
at  midnight  on  the  eighteenth  of  December,  1812,  and 
history  relates  how,  upon  being  ushered  into  the  room  of 
the  Empress,  she  did  not,  at  first,  recognise  him  as  the 
Emperor,  and  how,  for  a  moment,  great  confusion  ensued  ; 
she  thinking  some  intruder  had  broken  in  upon  her  slum- 
bers. The  scene  must  have  been  ludicrous  in  the  extreme  ; 
the  ci-devant  mighty  conqueror  stealing  back  to  his  own 
like  a  thief  in  the  night,  instead  of  with  the  blare  of  trum- 
pets and  the  booming  of  cannon,  that  had  always  there- 
tofore announced  his  triumphant  return  from  the  field  of 
battle.  Upon  this  occasion  he  and  his  famous  twenty- 
ninth  bulletin  arrived  in  Paris  about  the  same  time.  What 
a  revelation  they  brought  to  every  fireside  in  France. 
Instead  of  the  usual  victory,  they  brought  news  of  such 
a  disaster  as  had  never  before  fallen  to  the  lot  of  the 
brave  soldiers  of  the  Grand  Army.  If  there  ever  was  an 
occurrence  in  the  history  of  this  great  man,  which  would 
excuse  the  writing  of  such  verses  as  the  following,  it  was 
upon  the  occasion  of  his  return  to  Paris,  for  surely  the 
manner  of  his  return,  and  the  reception  he  met  with  at  the 
hands  of  his  august  spouse,  were  anything  but  dignified. 
Although  the  author  does  not  confine  himself  strictly  to 
the  truth,  there  is  enough  of  the  reality  in  his  recital  to 
save  it  from  being  called  pure  fiction. 


NAPOLEON,  EMPEROR. 
From  the  engraving  by  Wilson. 

Published  at  Stockport,  England,  in  1805,  as  the  frontispiece  of  a  work 

entitled  the  "  Nativity  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  etc.,  etc., 

by  John  Worsdale. 


BONAPARTE'S  RETURN    TO    PARIS,    INCOG.         313 

HONAI'ARTF.'S    RETURN  TO    PARIS,    IXCOC. 

ANON. 
As  Maria  Louisa  lay  pond'ring  in  bed 

With  the  sweet  King  of  Rome,  the  delight  of  beholders. 
"  I  wonder,"  thought  she,  "where  old  Nap  rests  his  head. 
Or  indeed  if  he  's  got  e'en  a  head  on  his  shoulders. 

"  For  't  is  whispered,  I  hardly  know  how  to  believe  it, 
That  Nap  has  in  Russia  been  terribly  bang'd, 

So  drubb'd  and  disgraced,  he  can  never  retrieve  it, 
Yet  if  it  be  true,  I  'd  as  lieve  he  were  hang'd. 

"  To  drag  me  from  home  and  each  tender  relation, 
In  France,  every  horror,  and  danger  to  brave, 

In  hourly  terror  of  assassination, 

For  being  of  Honey,  the  wife — and  the  slave. 

"  Oh  !  would  that  I  never  had  left  my  dear  Father, 
I  Ve  repented  but  once — ever  since,  to  my  sorrow, 

Were  the  time  to  come  over  again,  I  would  rather 
Than  be  Boney's  Empress — be  buried  to-morrow. 

"  For  none  here  surmise  how  basely  he  treats  ivu  , 
Ve  Frenchmen, — the  English,  ye  call  Johnny  Bull, 

Yet,  if  they  but  knew  how  Napole  cheats  ye. 

They  well  might  return,  and  call  you  Fanny  Gull. 

"  Alas,  and  alas,  1  hope  that  he  never, 

He  never  again,  to  me  will  come  back, 
Oh  !   then  I  would  sing,   '/'<•   Dcitni  for  ever. 

And  marry  for  joy  some  handsome  Cossack." 

So  ponder'd  Maria,  when  all  in  a  minute, 

A  terrible  ringing  was  heard  at  the  gate- 
"  'T   is  a   Courier,"   thought   she,   "  I    hope   there  's  sonic 
good  in  't, 

And  that  rascal  Old  Nappy  has  met  with  his  fate. 


316  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  Fly,  my  maids,"  she  exclaims, — "ye  soldiers,  all  fly— 
I  faint  with  impatience— what  is  it,  you  log? 

Come  tell  me — be  quick —        "  Please,  your  Majesty, 
The  Emperor  himself  has  arrived — incog." 

"  You  villain,  you  lie,"  cried  Maria  Louisa, 

"  'T  is  a  falsehood  you  utter  to  torture  your  Queen.' 

"  Oh,  I  am  arrived,  of  her  troubles  to  ease  her!  " 
Exclaims  a  gruff  varlet,  of  horrible  mien. 

Maria  turn'd  round,  and  full  in  her  view 

Stood  an  object,  of  shoes,  and  of  breeches  bereft, 

His  skin  of  a  swarthy  and  mud-colour'd  hue, 
And  on  his  thin  back,  scarce  a  tatter  was  left. 

"  What,  you  !  "  cried  Maria,  and  scream'd  with  affright 
"You  sans-culotte  ruffian,  what  is  it  you  say? 

Here,  soldiers — a  thief  under  cover  of  night 
Has  led  all  the  sentinels'  senses  astray. 

"  Here,  seize  him,  and  bind  him — the  infamous  dog 
Would  pass  himself  off  for  your  Emperor  Nap, 

And  coming  stark  naked,  to  call  it  incog, — 

Besides,  he  's  a  thousand  miles  off,  by  the  map." 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  bad,  parbleu  !  I  declare," 

Cried  Nappy  the  Great — for  't  was  him  all  the  while— 

"  Madame,  dis  is  carrying  de  joke  too  far, 

I  'm  de  Grand  Napoleon,  I  swear — you  may  smile— 

'  Vincenza  !  diable  !  what,  can  you  not  speak  ! 

Am  I  le  Grand  Napoleon  ?  say  yes,  or  no  : 
Where  's  the  King  of  Rome  ?     Were  he  but  awake, 
In  a  moment,  his  Father  the  Emperor,  he  'd  know. 

"  What,  smiling  again  ! — Vincenza  !  you  're  dumb  ! 
I  shall  surely  go  mad — how  's  this  ? — I  'm  betray'd  ! 


BONAPARTE'S  RETURN    TO    PARIS,    IXCOG.         317 

Vincenza  reflected — the  time  was  not  come 
To  strike  a  safe  blow — so  he  stammering  said  : 

"  Madame — by  gar,  it  is  all  very  true, 

Dis  is  de  Grand  Emperor,  I  do  assure  you, 

Through  frost,  and  through  snow,  full  many  a  mile 
We  've   scamper'd  —  the    Cossacks    behind     us    the 
while — 

"  Peace,  idiot !  "  cried  Nap,  "  a  plague  on  your  throat, 
What  have  Cossacks  with  me,  or  your  story  to  do  ? 

You  know  while  I  slumber'd  they  pilfer'd  my  coat, 
And  this  rag — is  one  that  I  borrow'd  of  you." 

Vincenza  bow'd  low,  and  Maria  with  grief 

Saw  the  Tyrant  again,  as  her  Lord  she  must  own, 

And  swallow  the  tale  of  the  Cossack  and  thief, 

And  share  with  a  sans-culotte  Emperor  the  throne. 

So  she  rush'd  to  his  arms  with  well-acted  surprise, 
And  wept  on  his  shoulder,  tears  true  from  her  heart ; 

When  Boney  exclaim'd,  "  Now,  Madame,  use  your  eyes, 
And  trace  thro'  his  tatters  the  great  Bonaparte." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  can  trace  him,"  she  archly  replied, 
"  Yet  I  ne'er  saw  so  much  of  his  person  before  ;  " 

"  Yet,  Madame  !  "  cried  Nap,  distending  with  pride, 
I  'm  cover'd  with  glory  for  evermore." 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Maria,  "  yet  you  don't  seem  to  warm," 
Cried  Vincenza,  "  With  cold,  and  with  hunger,  we  're 

dead  ! " 
"  Peace,  worm  !  " — thundered   Nap,  "You  the  Empress 

alarm, 
"  Retire — Madame,  will  vou  lead  me  to  bed  ?  " 


THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA. 

MR.  WORDSWORTH  was  one  of  the  few  English  writers 
who  treated  Napoleon  as  a  rational  fellow  being,  and  who, 
while  not  in  favour  of  him  as  a  ruler  of  the  French  nation, 
was  willing  to  give  him  fair  treatment.  In  his  summing 
up  of  the  cause  and  effect  of  the  terrible  fate  which  over- 
took the  French  army  on  its  retreat  through  the  frozen 
wilderness  of  Russia,  Wordsworth  frankly  admits  that  it 
was  not  Alexander's  skill,  nor  his  soldiers'  valour  which 
conquered  those  legions  that  had  never  before  known 
defeat,  and  he  asserts  that  it  was  the  elements,  alone, 
which  accomplished  the  task  of  obliterating  from  the  face 
of  the  earth  one  of  the  finest  armies  the  world  ever  saw. 

THE  FRENCH  ARMY   IN  RUSSIA. 

1812-13. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Humanity,  delighting  to  behold 

A  fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay, 

Hath  painted  Winter  like  a  traveller  old. 

Propped  on  a  staff,  and,  through  the  sullen  day, 

In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o'er  the  plain, 

As  though  his  weakness  were  disturbed  by  pain  ; 

Or,  if  a  juster  fancy  should  allow 

An  undisputed  symbol  of  command, 

The  chosen  sceptre  is  a  withered  bough, 

Infirmly  grasped  within  a  palsied  hand 


THE   FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA.  319 

These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn, 
But  mighty  Winter  the  device  shall  scorn. 

For  he  it  was — dread  Winter  !  who  beset, 

Flinging  round  van  and  rear  his  ghastly  net, 

That  host,  when  from  the  regions  of  the  Pole 

They  shrunk,  insane  ambition's  barren  goal — 

That  host,  as  huge  and  strong  as  e'er  defied 

Their  God,  and  placed  their  trust  in  human  pride  ! 

As  fathers  persecute  rebellious  sons, 

He  smote  the  blossoms  of  their  warrior  youth  ; 

He  called  on  Frost's  inexorable  tooth 

Life  to  consume  in  Manhood's  firmest  hold  ; 

Nor  spared  the  reverend  blood  that  feebly  runs  ; 

For  why — unless  for  liberty  enrolled 

And  sacred  home — ah  !  why  should  hoary  Age  be  bold  ? 

Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed, 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  Wind 
Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  Monarch  freed, 
And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his  kind, 
And  bade  the  Snow  their  ample  backs  bestride, 

And  to  the  battle  ride. 
No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt, 
No  courage  can  repel  the  dire  assault ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink — and,  in  one  instant,  find 
Burial  and  death  ;  look  for  them — and  descry, 
When  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky, 
A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  vacancy  ! 


SONG    OF    LIBERTY. 

AFTER  his  return  to  Paris  from  the  ill-fated  Russian 
campaign,  Napoleon  began  at  once  to  prepare  for  another 
struggle  ;  a  struggle  which  was  to  prove  more  disastrous 
to  his  hopes  than  the  one  through  which  he  had  just 
passed.  He  was  once  more  about  to  enter  the  field 
against  combined  Europe,  and  this  time,  for  the  first  since 
he  had  come  into  power,  were  the  frontiers  of  France  to 
be  invaded  by  her  foes.  Prussia  was  the  first  of  his  allies 
to  break  away  from  him  and  enter  into  an  alliance  with 
Russia.  Sweden  had  already  joined  the  coalition,  and 
Austria  was  about  to  join  hands  in  the  fight.  Spain  and 
Portugal  were  lost,  and  Wellington  \vas  on  the  march  to 
invade  France  from  the  South.  Murat,  to  save  his  own 
throne,  agreed  to  turn  his  guns  against  the  man  who  had 
given  him  his  sister  in  marriage,  and  who  had  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  be  a  king.  Jomini  was  about  to  de- 
sert his  flag  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  and  Moreau  was 
already  on  his  way  from  America  to  join  the  Emperor 
Alexander.  The  death  struggle  of  the  mighty  con- 
queror was  at  hand  and  terrible  the  struggle  was  to  be. 
All  Germany  was  being  aroused  and  united  in  a  common 
cause  against  the  "  French  Usurper."  The  song-writers 
of  the  Fatherland  were  soon  to  rrap  the  harvest  'if  their 
labours. 


SONG   OF  LIBERTY.  321 

The  following  song  was  composed  on  the  march  of  the 
Prussian  army  from  Potsdam  to  Breslau,  and  was  the  first 
German  song  of  liberty  published  in  1813. 

SONG    OF    LIBERTY. 

LA  MOTTE  K 

Mount  !  mount  !  for  sacred  freedom  fight ! 

The  battle  soon  must  be. 
The  night  is  past,  and  red  the  light 

Streams  o'er  the  dewy  lea. 

Up  !  let  the  coward  idlers  sleep  ! 

Who  envies  them  their  rest? 
We  march  with  joyful  hearts  to  keep 

Our  honoured  king's  request. 

To  us  he  said  :  "  My  brave  ones  all ! 

My  chasseurs  !  where  are  they?" 
Responsive  to  his  patriot  call 

We  hastened  to  obey. 

We  vowed  to  strike  with  mighty  hand 

As  it  becomes  the  free — 
A  safeguard  for  our  native  land 

With  heaven's  grace  to  be. 

Sleep  calmly,  wives  and  children  dear  ! 

To  God  your  sorrows  tell. 
The  hour,  alas  !   of  blood  is  near, 

But  all  your  fears  dispel. 

Approved  we  hasten  to  the  field  ; 
What  though  the  strife  begins  ! 
I'  is  joy  our  loved  ones  thus  to  shield, 
For  pious  courage  wins. 


322  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Returning,  all  may  not  be  found  ! 

But  some,  in  glory's  grave, 
Shall  never  hear  the  songs  resound 

Of  those  they  died  to  save. 

Come,  glowing  heart !  despise  the  pain 
Of  death  ;  for,  evermore, 

Shall  he  who  falls,  a  kingdom  gain 
On  heaven's  eternal  shore  ! 


THE  VISIT  TO  THE  MILITARY  HOSPITAL. 

ON  the  fifteenth  of  April,  1813,  Napoleon  left  Paris  for 
headquarters.  The  veterans  of  the  Grand  Army,  the 
soldiers  who  had  fought  at  Lodi,  at  Marengo,  and  at 
Austerlitz,  had  disappeared,  nearly  to  a  man,  beneath  the 
snows  of  Russia,  or  under  the  burning  suns  of  Spain  and 
Portugal.  The  army  which  was  about  to  undertake  the 
gigantic  task  of  beating  back  the  threatened  tide  of  in- 
vasion consisted,  almost  wholly,  of  conscripts  ;  boys  who 
had  never  faced  a  foe  or  fired  a  gun  upon  the  field  of 
battle,  and  yet  these  boys,  every  one  of  them,  were  to 
prove  themselves  heroes.  With  these  youthful  warriors 
the  battles  of  Lutzen  and  Bautzen  were  fought  and  won. 
Never  in  his  whole  military  career  did  Napoleon  prove 
himself  a  greater  general  than  he  did  during  the  campaign 
of  1813.  The  odds  against  him  were  simply  overpower- 
ing, and  it  was  fated  that  mere  numbers  alone  were  soon 
to  crush  him. 

The  battle  of  Lutzen  was  fought  on  the  second  of  May, 
1813,  and  what,  at  first,  looked  like  a  most  disastrous  defeat 
was  turned,  by  the  timely  appearance  of  Napoleon  upon 
the  field,  into  one  of  his  most  glorious  victories.  A  few 
days  before  the  battle  the  Old  Guard  lost  its  gallant  leader. 
Marshal  Bessieres,  who  had  commanded  this  invincible 
band  since  1/96,  but,  even  without  him,  the  Guard  had 


still  to  experience  its  first  defeat,  and  it  finished  at  Lut- 
zen  the  work  which  the  conscripts  had  so  well  begun. 
Bautzen  was  fought  on  the  twenty  first  of  May,  following, 
and  it  resulted  in  another  brilliant  victory  for  the  French 
cause.  Both  these  battles  were  won,  because  the  love  the 
young  conscripts  bore  to  their  Emperor  equalled  that  of 
his  old  veterans;  it  was  a  devotion  on  their  part  till  death. 
The  scene  pictured  in  the  following  poem  is  not  a  fancy 
one,  but  one  that  shows  how  Napoleon  was  worshipped 
by  his  soldiers,  even  as  they  fought,  with  death  for  their 
foe,  their  last  fight. 

THE    VISIT    TO    THE    MILITARY    HOSPITAL. 

(After  Baut/.en,  1813.') 

WAI.TKK  TIIORNIU'RY. 

"  This  is  the  fate  of  those  who  war," 

Napoleon  said  to  me  ; 
"  High  at  the  morn,  but  low  at  night. 

Take  down  that  map  and  see 
How  many  leagues  we  won  to-day. 

Ten  losses.      I  retire. 
One  Victory.      Berlin,  Breslau, 

Shall  crumble  at  my  fire." 

We  stood  outside  the  Thirteenth  Ward, 

1  le  spoke  as  hushed  and  low 
As  if  each  word  on  some  sick  man 

Would  fall  a  smitiilg  blow  ; 
lie  turned  the  handle  very  soft 

As  to  one  sleeping,  then 
\\  e  stood  beside  the  line  of  beds, 

AmoiiLT  the  wounded  men. 


THE   VISIT   TO    THE   MILITARY   HOSPITAL.         325 

He  laid  his  hand  with  woman's  care 

Upon  a  soldier's  brow  ; 
The  dying  face  turned  slowly  up. 
"  Do  you  not  know  me  now? 
Your  Emperor  ?  "     The  dying  lips 

Struggled  for  life,  the  heart 
Beat  once,  the  sick  man  faltered  out, 
"  Comrades,  'tis  Bonaparte  !  " 

Then  with  a  groan  lay  down  again, 

To  pray  for  him  and  die. 
The  tears  sprang  up  into  my  eyes 

When  faint  and  weak,  the  cry 
Ran  through  the  ward  of  Austerlitz, 

"  The  Emperor  is  come  !  " 
And  one  poor  boy  with  bandaged  hand 

Caught  at  his  broken  drum. 

The  dying  on  their  pillows  rose, 

To  swell  the  hoarse,  low  cheer 
That  rolled  along — 't  was  pitiful, 

Yet  saddening  to  hear. 
"  My  children,"  cried  the  Emperor, 

•'  My  old  Imperial  Guards, 
My  '  Salamanders,'  '  Never-turns,' 

My  '  Lions,'  my  '  Die-hards,' 

"  I  love  you  as  I  love  my  life  ; 

We  are  the  self-same  stock. 
France  cares  for  you-    't  was  you  who  bled 

To  build  her  on  the  rock; 
Your  wives  and  orphans  she  will  take 

To  her  capacious  heart. 
Dare  she  forget  them  while  lie  reigns. 

Your  little  Bonaparte  -1 


326  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  My  children—  But  the  rare  seen  tears 

Rose  up  and  filled  his  throat, 
As  every  bugler  took  his  horn 

And  blew  the  battle  note  ; 
And  then  the  wounded  drummer  boy, 

Two  dead  men's  beds  betwixt, 
Crawled  to  the  floor  and  slung  his  drum, 

And  plied  his  little  sticks. 

A  one-armed  man  took  off  a  flag 

He  'd  bound  around  his  waist, 
To  stop  and  staunch  the  brave  heart's  blood 

That  from  his  gashes  raced, 
lie  waved  it  round  his  feeble  head, 

His  large  eyes  all  a-fire, 
Then  let  it  drop,  and  laid  him  clown, 

The  brave  man — to  expire. 


BONEY  AND  DUROC. 

THE  comrades  of  his  early  triumphs  were  dropping  out, 
one  by  one.  Lannes  was  the  first  to  answer  the  final 
roll  call.  Bessieres'  turn  came  next,  and  now,  by  a  bullet 
which  seemed  to  have  spent  its  force  and  to  have  already 
performed  its  deadly  work,  Duroc  was  for  ever  separated 
from  his  beloved  chief.  "One  after  the  other  the  stars 
were  setting  in  the  constellation  of  his  first  years  of 
glory."  Duroc  was,  perhaps,  nearer  to  Napoleon,  and 
knew  him  more  intimately,  than  any  other  of  the  brilliant 
warriors  who  had  followed  him  through  all  his  years  of 
wonderful  success.  There  can  be  no  possible  doubt  that 
the  death  of  Duroc  deeply  affected  the  Emperor,  and 
that  he  lost  in  him  one  of  the  few  really  faithful  friends 
he  had  among  all  those  famous  marshals,  who  were  great 
because  Napoleon  had  made  it  possible  for  them  to  be- 
come so.  What  a  vile  parody  the  following  lines  are  on 
the  last  interview  which  took  place  between  these  two 
friends  as  Duroc  lay  dying,  and  yet,  they  are  only  in  tune 
with  all  that  was  written  in  those  days  by  Englishmen 
about  any  and  every  thing  connected  in  any  way  with 
the  "  hated  tyrant  "  who  occupied  the  "  usurped  "  throne 
of  France. 


328  A    METRICAL   HISTORY    OF  NAPOLEON. 

BOXKY    AND    DUROC. 

Tune — "  The  Vicar  and  Pluses." 

ANON. 

When  the  darkness  of  night 
Put  an  end  to  the  fight, 

And  the  thunder  of  Death  ceas'd  to  shock  ; 
To  supply  a  full  stop, 
A  huge  cannon-ball  pop, 

Came  and  brought  on  his  marrows  Duroc. 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 

When  he  heard  this  mishap, 
Soon  appeared  mighty  Nap, 

His  eyes  for  defeat  were  o'erflowing  ; 
Duroc  thought  't  was  for  him. 
Bid  him  dry  up  each  glim, 

But  exclaimed — "  Sire,  for  you  I  am  going! 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 

Boney  cried,   "  Yes,  I  see 
You  're  no  longer  for  me, 

I  'm  sorry  such  hero  to  lose  ; 
Too  true  you  have  said, 
In  glory's  great  bed, 

You  must  take  a  bit  of  a  snooze." 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 

"  But  Marshal,  my  Brother, 
Life  there  is  another  ; 

And,  Duroc,  oh,  think  what  a  treat ! 
When  enough  fam'd  in  story, 
I  '11  go  there  to  glory, 

And  there  without  fail  we  will  meet." 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 


BONEY  AND   DUROC,  329 

"  That  the  Pris'ncrs  I  Ye  shot. 
And  the  sick  sent  to  pot. 

Make  my  claim  good,  I  think  clear  as  mud  ; 
Eternally  happy, 
You  '11  be  when  there,  Nappy, 

Has  sailed  on  the  ocean  of  blood." 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 

"  Yes,"  Duroc  replied, 

"  But  my  grief  I  can't  hide, 

My  speech  is  all  broken  by  tears  ; 
I  fear,  sad  presage  ! 
You  will  live  to  old  age, 

And  stop  here  some  thirty  years  longer." 

Tol  de  rol,  etc. 

"Such  period  I  own, 
Bonaparte  on  the  throne, 

I  'm  afraid  France  is  destin'd  to  see  ; 
Nor  think  it  a  crime, 
When  I  say  that  the  time 

Will  seem  long  to  the  Devil  and  me." 

Fal  de  ral,  de  rol,  etc. 


THE    BATTLE    OF     DRESDEN. 

AFTER  the  victory  won  at  Bautzen,  Napoleon,  as  was 
usual  with  him,  offered  peace  to  the  Allies  ;  but  the  terms 
they  insisted  upon  were  such  as  in  honour  he  could  not 
accept.  Austria,  as  yet  neutral,  pretended  to  act  as 
mediator  between  the  hostile  nations;  but,  seeking  war 
rather  than  peace,  she  proclaimed  the  fact  that  if  peace 
was  not  accepted  by  France  on  the  basis  laid  down  by 
herself,  she  would  at  once  declare  war  and  join  the  coali- 
tion. Napoleon,  knowing  well  the  critical  position  he 
occupied,  offered  new  concessions  to  his  enemies  ;  which 
were  about  to  be  accepted  when  the  news  came  of  Wel- 
lington's great  victory  over  Soult  at  Vittoria.  This  vic- 
tory meant  the  invasion  of  France  from  the  south  by  the 
English  army.  All  terms  of  peace  were  at  once  refused. 
Austria,  showing  her  true  colours,  declared  war,  and,  with 
two  hundred  thousand  more  soldiers  to  aid  them,  the 
Allies  began  the  fight,  which,  this  time,  was  to  end  in  the 
downfall  of  the  man  who,  alone,  had  concluered  them, 
combined,  so  many  times.  Hoping  to  capture  the  city 
of  Dresden,  the  Allies  attacked  it  when  they  knew  the 
dreaded  Napoleon  was  far  away  in  Silesia  engaged  with 
Blucher.  Marshal  St.  Cyr,  in  command  of  the  city,  de- 
fended it  nobly,  but  his  young  soldiers  were  no  match  for 
the  overwhelming  forces  hurled  against  them,  and  a  sur- 


THE   BATTLE   OF  DKESDEX.  331 

render  seemed  the  only  alternative  left.  Napoleon,  hear- 
ing of  the  situation,  turned  back  and  with  forced  marches 
retraced  his  steps  with  almost  unexampled  rapidity  tow- 
ards the  apparently  doomed  city.  He  appeared  in  sight 
just  as  the  routed  garrison  were  flying  from  the  place, 
and  coming  with  his  legions  thundering  down  the  sides 
of  the  mountains  and  over  the  bridges  of  Elbe,  he  called 
the  retreating  soldiers  back  to  their  duty,  and,  turning 
suddenly  the  tide  of  battle,  he  never  rested  until  the 
scattered  forces  of  the  allied  armies  were  driven  far  over 
the  hills  of  Erzgebirge. 

THE    BATTLE     OF    DRESDEN. 

MRS.  H.  E.  G.  A  KEY. 

Back  to  your  posts  !     Again,  again, 

Yon  falt'ring  flag  let  victory  fill  ; 
Pour  from  your  ranks  the  fiery  rain, 

And  bid  the  exulting  foe  be  still. 

Hack  to  your  posts  !      \Yc  come — we  come, 

A  thousand  legions,  fresh  for  war, 
Arc  rushing  through  the  forest's  gloom, — 

Are  pouring  down  the  mountains  far. 

Go,  bid  th'  "  astonished  eagles  "  stand, 
And  on  yon  bristling  hosts  advance; 

Up,  coward  heart  and  fainting  hand  ! 

Who  yields  where  rides  the  "  Heir  of   France  "  ? 

Far  where  Silesia's  waters  sweep, 

Beneath  us  quaked  the  coffined  dead  ; 

The  Saxon,  from  his  slumbers  deep, 
\Yoke,  startled  at  our  midnight  tread. 


332  A    METRICAL   H '1 STORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And,  thundering  through  each  lofty  arch, 
Thy  bridges,  Elbe,  our  strength  have  known 

We  pause  not  from  our  rushing  march, — 
On  to  the  breathless  conflict — On  ! 

The  arms  of  France  are  burnished  still  ; 

Yon  countless  hosts  before  us  met 
May  league  their  legions  as  they  will ; 

Their  shouts  shall  change  to  waitings  yet. 

Forth  on  their  track  !   Those  hosts  in  flight 
Shall  seek  the  heather's  dreamless  bed  ; 

And  far  o'er  Erzgebirge's  hills,  to-night 
The  wolves  shall  match  their  gory  dead. 

Hail,  glorious  field!     Not  yet,  not  yet 
Hath  sunk  Napoleon's  peerless  star  ; 

And,  where  his  glittering  lance  is  set, 
Far  backward  streams  the  tide  of  war. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SWORD. 

IN  the  early  spring  of  1813  there  was  published  in  Ger- 
many the  "  Fatherland's  Call  to  Arms  in  the  Struggle  for 
Liberation,"  and  Karl  Theodor  Koerner  was  among  the 
first  to  respond.  Not  yet  twenty-two  years  old,  when  he 
fell  fighting  gallantly  for  his  country,  this  brilliant  young 
German  poet  did  more  for  the  cause  of  the  Fatherland, 
both  with  his  pen  and  with  his  sword,  than  would  be 
thought  possible  in  one  so  young.  He  was  mortally 
wounded  in  a  skirmish  which  took  place  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  August,  1813,  between  the  Prussian  free-corps, 
commanded  by  Major  Lutzon,  of  which  he  was  a  member, 
and  the  French,  near  Gadebusch,  and  he  died  the  same 
day.  It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  day  he  was  killed  that 
he  wrote  the  following  song,  one  of  the  wildest  of  his  war 
songs,  a  love-rhapsody  to  his  sword — the  soldier's  bride. 

Germany  owes  a  great  deal  to  her  song-writers,  and  at 
that  time,  the  period  of  her  sorest  need,  Koerner  did  his 
part  well,  and  cheerfully  he  gave  up  his  young  life  that 
his  country  might  be  free. 

Till-:    SONG    OF   TIIK    SWORD. 

KARL  THKOIHJK   KOKKM-.K. 

Sword  !   on  my  left  side  gleaming, 
What  means  thy  bright  eye's  beaming?' 
It  makes  my  spirit  dance 
To  see  thy  friendly  glance. 
Hurrah  ! 


334  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON, 

"  A  valiant  rider  bears  me  ; — 
A  free-born  German  wears  me  : 
That  makes  my  eye  so  bright, 
That  is  the  Sword's  delight." 
Hurrah  ! 

Yes,  good  Sword,  I  am  free  ! 
And  love  thee  heartily  ; 
And  clasp  thee  by  my  side 
Even  as  a  plighted  bride. 

Hurrah ! 

"  And  I  to  thee,  by  Heaven, 
My  light  steel  life  have  given — 
When  shall  the  knot  be  tied  ? 
When  wilt  thou  take  thy  Bride  ?  " 
Hurrah  ! 

The  trumpet's  solemn  warning 
Shall  hail  the  bridal  morning  ; 
When  cannon-thunders  wake, 
Then  my  true  love  I  take. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  O  blessed,  blessed  meeting  ! 
My  heart  is  wildly  beating : 
Come,  Bridegroom  !   come  for  me  ! 
My  garland  waiteth  thee." 
Hurrah  ! 

Why  in  the  scabbard  rattle, 
So  wild,  so  fierce  for  battle  ? 
What  means  this  restless  glow  ? 
My  Sword?  why  clatter  so? 
H  urrah  ! 


THE   SONG  OF    THE   SWORD.  335 

"  Well  may  thy  prisoner  rattle  : 
My  spirit  yearns  for  battle. 
Rider  !  't  is  war's  wild  glow 
That  makes  me  tremble  so." 
Hurrah  ! 

Stay  in  thy  chamber  near, 
My  Love  !  what  wilt  thou  here  ? 
Still  in  thy  chamber  bide  ! 
Soon,  soon  I  take  my  Bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Let  me  no  longer  wait, 
Love's  garden  blooms  in  state 
With  roses  bloody-red, 
And  many  a  bright  death-bed." 
Hurrah  ! 

Now  then,  come  forth,  my  Bride  ! 
Come  forth,  thou  Rider's  Pride  ! 
Come  out,  my  Good  Sword  !  come 
Forth  from  thy  father's  home  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Oh  in  the  field  to  prance 
The  glorious  wedding  dance  ! 
How,  in  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
Bride-like  the  clear  steel  gleams  !  " 
Hurrah  ! 

Then  forward  !  valiant  fighters  ! 
And  forward  !   German  riders  ! 
And,  when  the  heart  grows  cold. 
Let  each  his  Love  enfold  ! 
Hurrah  ! 


336  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Once  on  the  left  it  hung, 
And  stolen  glances  flung  ; 
Now  clearly  on  your  right 
Doth  God  each  fond  Bride  plight. 
Hurrah  ! 

Then  let  your  hot  lips  feel 
That  virgin  cheek  of  steel  ! 
One  kiss  !  and  woe  betide 
Him  who  forsakes  the  Bride  ! 
Hurrah! 

Now  let  the  Loved  One  sing ! 
Now  let  the  clear  blade  ring 
Till  the  bright  sparks  shall  fly, 
Heralds  of  victory  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

For  hark!    the  trumpet's  warning 
Proclaims  the  marriage-morning; 
It  dawns  in  festal  pride  : 
Hurrah!  thou  Iron  Bride! 
Hurrah  ! 


MOKEAI:. 
From  an  engraving  by  Elizabeth  ('«.  Ilerhan,  after  duerin. 

I'aris    1799. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  MOREAU. 

"  THROW  a  dozen  bullets  at  once  into  that  group  ;  per- 
haps there  are  some  little  generals  in  it."  The  above 
words,  pronounced  by  Napoleon  at  the  battle  of  Dresden, 
sealed  the  fate  of  his  old  rival  Moreau.  It  is  said  that 
when  Moreau  met  Jomini  in  the  camp  of  the  allied 
armies,  Moreau  expressed  surprise  to  find  Jomini  bearing 
arms  against  France,  to  which  Jomini  replied  :  "  Yes,  but 
I  am  not  a  Frenchman."  Moreau  felt  the  rebuke  keenly 
and  turned  away  without  further  remark.  The  hero  of 
Hohenlinden,  fighting  against  his  own  countrymen,  was 
certainly  a  strange  turn  in  history ;  but  it  was  then  a 
time  when  one  after  another  the  men  who  had  been 
heroes  were  fast  becoming  traitors.  They  were  the  rats 
deserting  the  ship  that  had  carried  them  safely  to  fame 
and  glory,  now  that  the  ship  itself  was  in  hourly  danger 
of  being  wrecked.  The  fate  which  overtook  Moreau  was 
a  terrible  price  to  pay  for  a  few  hours  of  vain-glorious 
boasting.  With  both  legs  carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball 
-he  died,  taking  with  him  to  the  grave  the  hatred  he 
bore  towards  the  man  who  had  it  in  his  power  in  1804  to 
have  had  him  shot  as  a  traitor  and  a  conspirator. 

The  praise  bestowed  upon  Moreau  in  the  lines  which 
follow  were  little  deserved  by  him,  however  great  his 
ability  and  his  early  glory. 

22 

337 


338  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  01-'  NAPOLEON. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    GENERAL   MOREAU. 

JOHN  AMKKOSE  WILLIAMS. 

Soul  of  the  Chief!  whose  glory-crested  name, 
Whose  worth,  whose  valour  lives  in  endless  fame, 
A  tear — wet  tribute  to  thine  urn  I  pay, 
For  all  my  heart  is  melted  in  my  lay. 
When  Europe,  bursting  from  oppression,  shook 
A  despot's  power,  and  dar'd  his  fiercest  look, 
Thy  genius  smil'd,  and  from  Columbia's  shore 
Flew  to  the  aid  of  millions — slaves  no  more. 

"  To  arms !  to  arms  !  "  each  gallant  sovereign  cried, 

"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  "  each  patriot  voice  replied  : 

Forth  thousands  rush'd,  impetuous,  for  the  flight, 

And  hail'd  Moreau  their  blest  protecting  light. 

The  chief  beheld  the  patriot  bands  advance, 

And  charge,  with  souls  of  fire,  the  hosts  of   France, 

"  On  !  on  !  ye  brave  !  "  th'  ill-fated  hero  cries, 

"  Slavery  's  your  doom,  or  freedom  be  your  prize  ; 

Maintain  the  conflict,  blood,  't  is  true,  must  flow, 

War  still  must  breed  fresh  ravage  and  fresh  woe  ; 

But  virtuous  blood  shall  not  in  vain  be  spilt, 

Peace  it  shall  purchase  and  o'erpower  guilt." 

He  said — bright  Heaven  !    death  speeded  with  the  wind, 

And  instant  struck  the  hope  of  half  mankind. 

Destructive  fire,  O  fatal  scene  !  he  fell. 

Cold  are  his  shatter'd  limbs, — brave  chief,  farewell ! 


ELI/CHER'S  BALL. 

THE  victory  won  at  Dresden  was  barren  of  any  decisive 
advantage  to  the  French  cause.  Even  before  the  roar 
of  the  battle  had  ceased,  Macdonald  was  compelled  at 
Katzbach  to  acknowledge  a  signal  defeat  at  the  hands  of 
that  sturdy  old  Prussian,  Marshal  Blucher  ;  Vandamme 
was  overthrown  in  Bohemia  ;  Oudinot  was  confronted  by 
his  old  comrade-in-arms,  Bernadotte,  and  victory  perched 
upon  the  banner  of  the  King  of  Sweden  ;  Key  was  as- 
sailed and  beaten  by  an  overwhelming  force  of  the  Allies. 
Such  were  the  tidings  brought  to  Napoleon  as  he  lay  on 
a  sick  bed  at  Dresden,  worn  out  and  exhausted  by 
almost  superhuman  exertion. 

Blucher  was  forging  to  the  front  in  those  days,  and  his 
was  the  fiery  spirit  which  was  to  push  the  fight,  even  to  the 
very  walls  of  Paris.  The  "  debauched  old  dragoon  "  was 
becoming  the  leader  and  the  inspiration  of  all  Germany. 

BI.UCIIKK'S  KAI.I.. 

A DI  u. K  l.rmvio  Km  I.KN. 

By  the  Katzbach,  by  the  Katzbach,  ha  !  there  was  a  merry 

dance  ; 
Wild     and    weird     and     whirling     waltzes     skipped     ye 

through,  ye  knaves  of  France  ! 
For  there  struck  the  great  bass-viol  an  old  German  master 

famed. — 
Marshal  Forward.  Prince  of  YVallstadt,  Gebhardt  Lebrecht 

Blucher  named. 


34O  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  ATAPOLEON. 

Up !  the  Bliicher  hath  the  ball-room  lighted  with  the 
cannon's  glare  ! 

Spread  yourselves,  ye  gay,  green  carpets,  that  the  dancing 
moistens  there  ! 

And  his  fiddle-bow  at  first  he  waxed  with  Goldberg  and 
with  Jauer ; 

Whew  !  he  's  drawn  it  now  full  length,  his  play  a  stormy 
northern  shower ! 

Ha  !  the  dance  went  briskly  onward,  tingling  madness 
seized  them  all  : 

As  when  howling,  mighty  tempests  on  the  arms  of  wind- 
mills fall. 

But  the  old  man  wants  it  cheery,  wants  a  pleasant  danc- 
ing chime ; 

And  with  gun-stocks  clearly,  loudly,  beats  the  old  Teu- 
tonic time. 

Say,  who,  standing  by  the  old  man,  strikes  so  hard  the 
kettle-drum, 

And,  with  crushing  strength  of  arm,  down  lets  the  thun- 
dering hammer  come  ? 

Gneisenau,  the  gallant  champion  :  Alemannia's  envious 
foes 

Smites  the  mighty  pair,  her  living  double-eagle,  shivering 
blows. 

And  the  old  man  scrapes  the  sweep-out  :  hapless  V ranks 
and  hapless  trulls  ! 

Now  what  dancers  leads  the  graybeard  ?  Na  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
't  is  dead  men's  skulls  ! 

But,  as  ye  too  much  were  heated  in  the  sultriness  of  hell, 

Till  ye  sweated  blood  and  brains,  he  made  the  Katzbach 
cool  ye  well. 

From  the  Katzbach,  while  ye  stiffen,  hear  the  ancient 
proverb  say, 

''Wanton  varlets,  venal  blockheads,  must  with  clubs  be 
beat  awav  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LEIPZIG. 

THE  battle  of  Leipzig,  fought  on  the  sixteenth  and  the 
eighteenth  of  October,  1813,  was  most  disastrous  in  its 
result  to  the  already  waning  fortune  of  the  great  Em- 
peror. It  had  been  the  purpose  af  the  Allies  all  through 
this  campaign  to  avoid  coming  in  contact  with  Napoleon 
personally.  At  Dresden  they  did  not  think  it  possible 
for  him  to  be  in  the  city  ;  hence  their  attack.  Moreau 
and  Jomini  had  given  them  good  advice;  to  fight  the 
French  marshals  on  ever}'  occasion  offered,  but  to  run 
from  the  invincible  chief.  At  Leipzig  they  felt  strong, 
and  confident  enough  to  risk  a  combat,  with  Napoleon 
in  personal  command  of  the  French  Arm}'.  During  two 
days  the  awful  conflict  was  kept  up,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  vile  treachery  and  infamous  desertion  the  result  of 
the  battle  might  have  been  the  reverse  of  what  it  was. 
Assailed  by  double  his  own  number,  betrayed  and  de- 
serted by  those  in  whom  he  trusted,  Napoleon  was  forced 
to  order  a  retreat — a  retreat  which  was  to  prove  second 
only  to  the  retreat  from  Russia  in  calamity  and  woe. 
After  his  victory  at  Dresden  Napoleon  proposed  the 
scheme  of  advancing  direct!}'  on  Berlin  ;  thus  compelling 
the  Allies  to  retrace  their  steps  in  order  to  defend  that 
city  and  their  own  country  ;  but  he  was  overruled,  and 
Leipzig  was  the  result.  Perhaps,  had  the  Emperor  fol- 

34! 


342  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

lowed  out  his  plan,  the  mighty  genius  with  which  he  was 
endowed  would  again  have  astonished  the  world  by  de- 
ferring his  near  downfall,  if  not  avoiding  it  altogether. 

Ernest  Moritz  Arndt,  the  author  of  the  following  poem, 
was  one  of  the  German  writers  of  those  days  who  did  so 
much  in  uniting  the  Fatherland  in  its  efforts  to  over- 
throw the  hated  French  ruler. 

THE    BATTLE    OK    LKIPXIC. 

ERNEST  MORITZ  A  KNOT. 

"  Whence  comest  thou  in  thy  garments  red, 
Soiling  the  hue  of  the  green  grass  plain  ?  " 
"  I  come  from  the  field  where  brave  men  bled, 
Red  from  the  gore  of  the  knightly  slain, 
Repelling  the  crash  of  the  fierce  assailing  ; 

I  o  o   * 

Mothers  and  brides  may  be  sorely  wailing, 
For  I  am  red." 

"  Speak,  comrade,  speak,  and  tell  me  true  ; 
Mow  call  ye  the  land  of  the  fateful  fight?  " 
"At  Leipzig  the  murd'rous  fierce  review 
Dimmed  with  full  tear-drops  many  a  sight  ; 
The  balls  like  winter  snowflakes  flying, 
Stifled  the  breath  of  thousands  dying, 
By  Leipzig  town." 

"  Name  me  the  hosts  that  in  battle  array 

Let  fly  their  diverse  banners  wide." 

"  All  lands  to  join  in  the  dread  affray 

Against  the  hated  French  took  side  ; 

The  gallant  Swede  and  the  valiant  Prussian, 

The  Austrian  famed  in  fight  and  the  Russian — 

All,  all  went  forth." 


THE  BATTLE   OF  LEIPZIG.  343 

"  And  who  in  the  strife  won  the  hard-fought  day, 
And  who  took  the  prize  with  iron  hand  ?  " 
"  God  scattered  the  foreigner  like  the  sea-spray, 
God  drove  off  the  foreigner  like  the  light  sand  ; 
Many  thousands  covered  the  grass  sward  lying, 
The  rest  like  hares  to  the  four  winds  flying, 
\Yith  Napoleon  too." 

"  God  bless  thee,  Comrade,  thank  thee  well  ! 

A  tale  is  this  the  full  heart  to  cheer," 

Sounds  like  a  cymbal  of  heavenly  swell, 

A  story  of  strife  and  a  story  of  fear, 

Leave  the  widows  and  brides  to  their  wail  of  sorrow  ; 

We  '11  sing  a  glad  song  for  full  many  a  morrow 

Of  the  Leipzig  fight. 

Leipzig,  good  town  of  the  fair  lindens  shade. 

A  day  of  proud  glory  shall  long  be  thine  ; 

So  long  as  the  years  roll  their  ceaseless  grade, 

So  long  as  the  suns  shall  continue  to  shine, 

So  long  as  the  streams  to  the  ocean  are  seeking, 

So  long  shall  thy  sons  be  the  fond  praise  speaking 

Of  the  Leipzig  fight. 


PONIATOWSKI. 

IT  was  a  fatal  mistake,  on  the  part  of  some  one,  that 
but  a  single  bridge  afforded  passage  across  the  river 
Elster  to  the  retreating  French  army  after  the  battle  of 
Leipzig.  The  result  proved  how  great  an  oversight  it 
was.  The  premature  blowing  up  of  this  bridge,  which 
was  an  inexcusable  blunder,  cut  Napoleon's  army  in  two 
and  left  more  than  twenty-five  thousand  men  without 
means  of  escape  and  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the  vic- 
torious Allies.  To  Marshals  Macdonald  and  Poniatowski 
had  been  assigned  the  forlorn  task  of  defending  the  city 
and  of  holding  back  the  enemy  until  the  rest  of  the  army 
had  safely  crossed  the  river.  Bravely  were  these  gallant 
warriors  striving  to  perform  that  duty  when  the  sound  of 
the  awful  explosion  at  the  bridge  reached  their  ears  and 
told  them  of  the  utter  impossibility  of  their  saving  the 
devoted  soldiers  who  had  so  nobly  stood  by  them.  It 
became  at  once  a  question  of  every  man  for  himself. 
Macdonald  plunged  with  his  horse  into  the  river  and 
escaped  to  the  opposite  side  ;  but  not  so  the  brave  and 
heroic  Pole.  Thrice  wounded,  he  endeavoured  to  cross 
the  stream  which  lay  between  him  and  safety,  but  the 
struggle  was  too  much  for  the  sorely  tried  marshal  and 
lie  sank,  never  again  to  rise.  For  his  gallant  conduct  on 
the  field  of  battle  Poniatowski  had  received  from  the 
hand  of  Napoleon  but  the  day  before  the  baton  of  a 

344 


PON  I A  TO  U  '.VAY.  345 

Marshal  of  France.  Commanding  the  extreme  rear  guard 
of  the  French  army,  and  almost  surrounded  by  the  enemy 
he  was  fighting  to  hold  back,  he  drew  his  s\vord  when  he 
heard  the  noise  of  the  fatal  explosion,  and  turning  to  those 
around  him,  said  :  "  Gentlemen,  it  now  becomes  us  to  die 
with  honour."  It  is  hard  to  believe  the  story  of  the  death 
of  such  a  hero,  as  it  is  told  by  Beranger,  himself  a 
Frenchman. 

PONIATOWSKI. 

PIERKK  JKAN  DE  BF.RANC.KR. 

What  !  are  ye  flying,  conquerors  of  the  world  ? 

Hath  Fortune  blundered  before  Leipzig's  walls  ? 
What,  flying  !  whilst  the  bridge  blown  up  and  hurled 

In  ruins  back,  to  the  hoarse  torrent  falls  ! 
Men,  horses,  arms,  all  wildly  mingled,  there 

Are  plunged  ;  the  Elster  rolls  encumbered  by  ; 
But  deaf  it  rolls  to  vow  or  tear  or  prayer  : 

"  Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  I  am  saved  !  " 
the  cry. 

4i  Naught  but  a  hand?  a  plague  on  him  who  craves! 

Press  on,  press  on  !   for  whom  should  we  delay  ?  " 
'T  is  for  a  hero  sinking  in  the  waves, 

'T  is  Poniatowski,  wounded  thrice  to-day. 
Who  cares?     Fear  bids  them  haste  with  savage  speed, 

To  stern,  cold  hearts  for  aid  doth  he  apply  ; 
The  waters  part  him  from  his  faithful  steed  : 

"  Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  I   am  saved  ! 
his  cry. 

He  dies — not  yet — he  struggles — swims — once  more 
The  charger's  mane  his  clutching  fingers  feel. 

"  What  !   to  die  drowned  !    whilst  there  upon  the  shore 
I  hear  the  cannon,  and  I  see  the  steel  ! 


346  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Help,  comrades,  help!    You  boasted  I  was  brave! 

I  loved  you — this  my  blood  should  testify. 
Ah  !   't  is  for  France  some  drops  I  still  would  save  ! 

Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  I  am  saved  !  " 
his  cry. 

There  is  no  succour  !  and  his  failing  hand 

Lets  go  its  guide  :  "  Poland,  adieu,  adieu  !  " 
But  lo  !  a  dream  descends  at  Heaven's  command, 

With  brilliant  image  dawning  on  his  view. 
"  Ha  !  the  White  Fagle  to  the  combat  wakes  ; 

All  soaked  with  Russian  blood  I  see  it  fly, 
Loud  on  mine  ear  a  hymn  of  glory  breaks  : 

Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  I  am  saved  !  " 
his  cry. 

There  is  no  succour!  he  is  dead, — the  foe 

Along  the  reedy  shore  their  camp  have  made. 
That  day  is  distant  ;  but  a  voice  of  woe 

Still  calls  beneath  the  waters'  deepest  shade. 
And  now  (great  God  !  give  man  a  willing  ear) 

That  mournful  voice  is  lifted  to  the  sky  ! 
Wherefore  from  heaven  re-echoed  to  us  here, 

''  Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  I  am  saved  !  ' 
the  cry. 

T  is  Poland,  't  is  her  faithful  sons'  lament : 

How  oft  our  battles  she  hath  helped  to  gain  ! 
She  drowns  herself  in  her  own  heart's  blood,  spent 

With  lavish  flow,  her  honour  to  maintain. 
As  then  the  Chief,  whose  mangled  corse  was  found 

In  Elster's  waves, — he  for  our  land  did  die, — 
Now  calls  a  nation,  o'er  a  gulf  profound, 

"  Frenchman,  give  but  a  hand,  and  we  are  saved  ' 
the  cry. 


PRINCE  WREDE'S  DEATH. 

DESERTED  by  all  his  allies,  his  own  brother-in-law, 
Murat,  among  the  number,  Napoleon's  days  of  triumph 
were  over.  Borne  down  by  the  irresistible  force  of  brute 
strength  alone,  he  made  in  1813  a  truly  wonderful  strug- 
gle for  the  cause  of  France,  and  bitterly  did  his  foes  pay 
for  every  advantage  gained  by  them.  At  Hanau  the 
Austrian  and  Bavarian  armies  sought  to  cut  off  his  re- 
treat. It  cost  them  ten  thousand  men  to  try  the  experi- 
ment ;  which  proved  a  most  disastrous  failure  on  their 
part.  The  Bavarian  General  Wrede  forfeited  his  life  in 
this  battle  as  a  penalty  for  fighting  against  his  old  com- 
mander, whom  he  had  followed  so  often  to  victory. 

PRINCE  WREDE'S  DEATH. 

ARTHUR  RAPT. 

By  Hanau,  where  the  Kinzig  dark  and  deep. 
To  meet  the  Main,  rolls  on  its  treacherous  way. 
Right  on  the  road  to  Frankfurt,  it  is  spanned 
By  an  old  bridge,  built  strong  of  basalt  grey. 
Midway,  encased  within  the  basalt  wall, 
A  narrow  marble  tablet  marks  a  name. 
'T  is  but  the  one  word,   ''  \Vredc,"  but  it  speaks 
To  German  hearts  of  glory  and  of  fame. 

Napoleon,  after  Leipzig's  stern  defeat, 

To  gain  his  France  once  more,  here  on  hi^  way 

347 


348  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOX. 

Met  proud  Bavaria's  proudest  prince.     At  last 
The  dauntless  lion  found  himself  at  bay. 
But,  though  ten  thousand  French  were  forced  to  find 
In  Kinzig's  treacherous  flood  a  horrid  grave, 
Prince  Wrede,  too,  fell,  wounded  unto  death. 
Yon  tablet  marks  the  spot.     God  rest  the  brave ! 

And  now  the  legend  goes,  that  on  this  spot 
Where  Wrede  fell,  his  ghost  is  often  seen. 
For,  when  the  moon  with  her  full  flood  of  light 
Upon  that  tablet  throws  her  silver  sheen, 
'T  is  said,  the  prince,  casting  upon  the  flood 
A  pitying  look,  tries,  so  the  story  goes, 
To  stem  the  rushing  waters,  and  to  save 
The  drowned  thousands  of  his  ghostly  foes. 


Bl.OCHER. 

Fr.., a  an  engraving  by  J.  Swaine,  after  a  drawing  from  life  In  F.  Kehbeiy 
London  (no  date). 


BLUCHER  AT  THE  RHINE. 

WITH  the  close  of  the  year  1813  came  an  end  to  all 
hope  for  any  material  success  on  the  part  of  the  French 
army.  One  after  another,  the  strongholds  and  fortresses 
held  by  France  in  Germany  succumbed,  and  over  eighty 
thousand  soldiers  became  prisoners  in  the  hands  of  the 
Allies.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  conquest  beyond 
the  Rhine,  but  one  of  whether  France  could  prevent  the 
crossing  of  that  stream  by  the  armies  of  her  foes.  Fate 
was  against  him.  Napoleon's  star  approached  the  hori- 
zon in  its  downward  course,  and  in  a  short  time  it  was 
destined  to  disappear  altogether.  On  the  twenty-first  of 
December  the  Austrian  army  crossed  the  Rhine,  and  on 
the  last  day  of  the  year  the  Prussian  army  followed.  It 
was  Blucher  who  urged  and  inspired  this  movement.  The 
Allied  Sovereigns,  strong  as  they  were,  hesitated  to  at- 
tack the  lion  in  his  own  den,  but  the  sturdy  old  marshal 
had  his  way  and  the  march  to  Paris  began. 

BLUCHER    AT    THE    RHINE. 

Arc.rsr  K onsen. 

' T  was  on  the  Rhine  the  armies  lay  : 
To  France  or  not  ?  is  't  yea,  or  nay? 
The\'  pondered  long,  and  pondered  well  ; 
At  length  old  Blucher  broke  the  spell  : 
349 


350  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  Bring  here  the  map  to  me  ! 
The  road  to  France  is  straight  and  free. 
Where  is  the  foe  ?  " — "  The  foe,  why  here  ! 
"We  '11  beat  him  !   forward  !  never  fear  ! 
Say,  where  lies  Paris  ?  " — "  Paris  here  !  " 
"  We  '11  take  it  !  forward  !  never  fear! 
So  throw  the  bridge  across  the  Rhine, 
Methinks  the  Frenchman's  sparkling  wine 
Will  taste  the  best  where  grows  the  vine !  ' 


THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  January,  1814, 
Napoleon  left  Paris  for  the  last  time,  but  one,  to  take 
command  of  his  army.  He  had  invested  the  Empress 
with  the  Regency,  and  had  confided  her  safety  and  that 
of  their  son  to  the  guardianship  and  protection  of  his 
subjects  in  the  capital.  He  never  saw  either  wife  or  son 
again.  More  than  a  million  men  were  pouring  in  from  all 
sides  upon  unhappy  France.  The  Rhine  no  longer  held 
back  the  advancing  hosts  on  the  one  side,  nor  did  the 
Pyrenees  prove  a  barrier  on  the  other.  Napoleon  could 
not  muster  over  two  hundred  thousand  soldiers,  all  told, 
to  check  the  flood  that  was  sweeping  everything  from  its 
path.  So  much  intrigue,  so  much  desertion  and  treachery, 
so  much  misery,  and  so  many  vacant  firesides  had  frozen 
the  blood  of  France,  until  even  such  a  stirring  appeal  as 
the  following  had  no  effect  to  bring  about  a  general  up- 
rising. As  Napoleon  himself  once  said  :  "  Frenchmen  in 
times  of  victory  are  heroes;  in  times  of  defeat  they  are 
children."  At  the  date  of  the  following  noble  invocation, 
the  armies  of  the  Allied  Sovereigns  were  rapidly  advan- 
cing on  Paris. 

THE  (1AULS    AM)    FRANKS. 
(January,  1814.) 

PlKRKE  Jr.AN     ]>K    Hi  KANC.I  K. 

Checrly,  chcerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
( )n,  advance, 
I  lope  of  France  ! 


352  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
Forward,  forward,  Gauls  and  Franks! 

Blindly  following  the  call 
Of  Attila,  again 
Comes  the  barbarian  train, 
Doomed  a  second  time  to  fall, 
Vanquished  on  the  fields  of  Gaul. 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
On,  advance,  etc. 

Leaving  his  morass  behind, 
Mark  how  the  rude  Cossack, 
In  place  of  bivouac, 
Trusts  the  English  that  he  '11  find 
Comfort,  in  our  halls  reclined. 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks! 
On,  advance,  etc. 

Shivering  all  his  days,  ill-fed, 
The  Russ,  in  snowy  waste 
Pent  up,  no  more  would  taste 
Acorns  and  his  own  black  bread, 
Craving  ours,  so  white,  instead. 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
On,  advance,  etc. 

Wines  we  have  in  luscious  store, 
Laid  up  for  us  to  toast, 
The  victories  we  boast — 

These  shall  thirsty  Saxons  pour? 

Ours  the  song,  the  cup,  no  more? 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
(  )n,  advance,  etc. 


THE    CAL'LS  A XI)   /••/vV/A'A'.V.  353 

Daughters  passing  fair  have  \ve — 

Too  fair  for  foul  embrace 

Of  hideous  Calmuck  race — 
Wives,  whose  charms  are  rare  to  see- 
Sons  of  theirs  should  Frenchmen  be? 

Cheerly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
( )n,  advance,  etc. 

What  !   the  monuments  so  dear — 

Trophies  that  no\v  so  well 

Of  all  our  14-1  ory  tell  - 
These  in  ruins  disappear ! 
What,  in  Paris!      Prussians  here  ! 

Cheer!}-,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks  ! 
On,  advance,  etc. 

Noble  Franks,  and  honest  Gauls  ! 

Peace,  man's  best  friend  belo\v, 

Ere  lon^-  herself  will  show, 
Blessing,  here  within  your  walls, 
Triumphs  won  where  honour  calls. 

Checrly,  cheerly,  close  the  ranks! 
On,  advance,  etc. 


ODE. 

IF  Southey  had  had  no  other  theme  to  write  about  than 
"  Napoleon  and  His  Misdeeds,"  he  would  have  had  sub- 
ject enough.  He  was  such  an  intense  hater  of  the  head 
of  the  French  Government,  and  had  such  a  desire  to  write 
him  down,  that  his  fertile  pen  could  hardly  keep  pace 
with  the  rapid  working  of  his  mind.  Honesty  of  purpose 
and  truth  in  recital  had  no  place  with  this  poet.  His  only 
aim,  seemingly,  was  to  slander  and  villify  the  man  he 
hated. 

Early  in  January,  1814,  Napoleon  sought  peace  with 
the  Allies,  which  was  refused  by  them  with  scorn.  They 
offered  a  cessation  of  hostilities,  not  a  peace,  but  at  the 
price  of  a  surrender  by  Napoleon  of  all  he  had  gained  for 
France  during  the  preceding  twenty  years.  The  Rhine, 
the  Pyrenees,  and  the  Alps  were  to  be  the  boundaries  be- 
yond which  France  could  not  go.  These  terms,  harsh  as 
they  were,  were  accepted  and  would,  probably,  have  been 
the  basis  of  a  treaty  had  not  England  interfered.  She 
would  listen  to  no  terms  but  the  dethronement  of  Na- 
poleon and  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  and  she  had 
her  way. 

ODE. 

(Written  during  the  negotiations  with  Bonaparte,  in  January,  1814.) 

KOBKKT    SOUTHKY. 

Who  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous  hour. 
When  God  hath  given  deliverance  to  the  oppress'd 
And  to  the  injured  power." 

354 


ODE.  355 

Who  counsels  peace,  when  vengeance,  like  a  flood. 
Rolls  on,  no  longer  now  to  be  repress'd  ; 

When  innocent  blood 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  world  cries  out 

For  justice  upon  one  accursed  head; 
When  freedom  hath  her  holy  banners  spread 
Over  all  nations,  now  in  one  just  cause 
United  ;  when,  with  one  sublime  accord, 
Europe  throws  off  the  yoke  abhorr'd, 
And  loyalty,  and  faith,  and  ancient  laws 
Follow  the  avenging  sword  ! 

Woe,  woe  to  England !  woe  and  endless  shame 

If  this  heroic  land, 

False  to  her  feelings  and  unspotted  fame, 
Hold  out  the  olive  to  the  tyrant's  hand  ! 
Woe  to  the  world,  if  Bonaparte's  throne 

Be  suffer'd  still  to  stand  ! 
For  by  what  name  shall  right  and  wrong  be  known, — 

What  new  and  courtly  phrases  most  we  feign 
For  falsehood,  murder,  and  all  monstrous  crimes. 
If  that  perfidious  Corsican  maintain 

Still  his  detested  reign, 

And  France,  who  yearns  even  now  to  break  her  chain 
Beneath  his  iron  rule  be  left  to  groan  ? 

No  !  by  the  innumerable  dead, 
Whose  blood  hath  for  his  lust  of  power  been  shed. 

Death  only  can  for  his  foul  deeds  atone  ; 

That  peace  which  death  and  judgment  can  bestow, 

That  peace  be  Bonaparte's, —  that  alone  ! 

For  sooner  shall  the  Ethiop  change  his  skin, 
Or  from  the  leopard  shall  her  spots  depart. 
Than  this  man  change  his  old,  flagitious  heart. 


Mavo  yo  not  seen  him  in  the  balance  weigh'd 
And  there  found  wanting  ?     On  the  stage  of  blood 
Foremost  the  resolute  adventurer  stood  ; 

And  when  by  many  a  battle  won, 
He  placed  upon  his  brow  the  crown, 

Curbing  delirious  France  beneath  his  sway, 

Then,  like  Octavius  in  old  time, 
Fair  name  might  he  have  handed  down, 
Effacing  man)-  a  stain  of  former  crime. 
Fool !   should  he  cast  away  that  bright  renown  ! 
Fool !  the  redemption  proffer'd  should  he  lose  ! 
When  I  leaven  such  grace  vouchsafed  him  that  the  way 

To  good  and  evil  lay 
Before  him,  which  to  choose. 

But  evil  was  his  good, 

For  all  too  long  in  blood  had  he  been  nursed, 
And  ne'er  was  earth  with  verier  tyrant  cursed. 

Bold  man  and  bad, 

Remorseless,  godless,  full  of  fraud  and  lies, 
And  black  with  murders  and  with  perjuries. 
Himself  in  hell's  whole  panoply  he  clad  ; 
No  law  but  his  own  headstrong  will  he  knew, 

No  counsellor  but  his  own  wicked  heart. 
From  evil  thus  portentous  strength  he  drew, 
And  trampled  under  foot  all  human  ties, 
All  holy  laws,  all  natural  charities. 

(  )  France!    beneath  this  fierce  barbarian's  sway 

Disgraced  thou  art  to  all  succeeding  times; 
Rapine  and  blood,  and  fire  have  mark'd  thy  way 

All  loathsome,  all  unutterable  crimes. 
A  curse  is  on  thee,  France  !    from  far  and  wide 
It  hath  gone  up  to  heaven.      All  land--  have  cried 
For  vengeance  upon  thy  detested  head! 


ODE.  357 

All  nations  curse  thcc,  Franco  !   for  whereso'er, 
In  peace  or  war,  thy  banner  hath  been  spread, 
All  forms  of  human  \voc  have  follow'd  there. 

The  living  and  the  dead 

Cry  out  alike  against  thee  !     They  who  bear. 
Crouching  beneath  its  \veight,  thine  iron  yoke, 
Join  in  the  bitterness  of  secret  prayer 
The  voice  of  that  innumerable  throng, 
Whose  slaughtered  spirits  day  and  night  invoke 

The  everlasting  Judge  of  right  and  wrong. 
How  long,  O  Lord  !    Iloiy  and  Just,  how  long  ! 

A  mercilesss  oppressor  hast  thou  been, 

Thyself  remorselessly  opprcss'd    meantime  ; 
Greed\-  of  war,  when  all  that  thou  coulclst  gain 
Was  but  to  dye  thy  soul  with  deeper  crime, 
And  rivet  faster  round  thyself  the  chain. 
Oh  !   blind  to  honour,  and  to  interest  blind, 
\\  hen  thus  in  abject  servitude  resign'd 
To  this  barbarian  upstart,  thou  coulclst  brave 
(jod's  justice,  and  the  heart  of  human-kind  ! 
Madly  thou  thoughtest  to  enslave  the  world, 

Thyself  the  while  a  miserable  slave. 
Heliold,  the  flag  of  vengeance  is  unfurl'd  ! 
I  he  dreadful  armies  ot  the  North  advance  ; 
\\hile  England,  Portugal,  and  Spain  combined, 
(iive  their  triumphant  banners  to  the  wind, 
And  stand  victorious  in  tin:  iields  of  France. 

One  man  hath  been  for  ten  long,  wretched  years 
The  cause  of  all  this  blood  and  all  these  tears; 
One  man  in  this  most  awful  point  of  time 
Draws  on  thy  danger,  as  lie  caused  thy  crime. 

Wait  not  too  long  the  event. 
For  now  whole  Furope  comes  against  thee   bent. 


358  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

His  wiles  and  their  own  strength  the  nations  know. 
Wise  from  past  wrongs,  on  future  peace  intent, 
The  people  and  the  princes,  with  one  mind, 
From  all  parts  move  against  the  general  foe  ; 
One  act  of  justice,  one  atoning  blow, 

One  execrable  head  laid  low, 
Even  yet,  O  France!  averts  thy  punishment, 
Open  thine  eyes! — too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 
Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 

France,  if  thou  lovest  thine  ancient  fame, 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame  ! 
By  the  bones  which  bleach  on  Jaffa's  beach  ; 
By  the  blood  which  on  Domingo's  shore 
Hath  clogg'd  the  carrion-birds  with  gore  ; 
By  the  flesh  which  gorged  the  wolves  of  Spain, 
Or  stiffcn'd  on  the  snowy  plain 

Of  frozen  Moscovy  ; 

By  the  bodies,  which  lie  all  open  to  the  sky, 
Tracking  from  Elbe  to  Rhine  the  tyrant's  flight ; 
By  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  cry  ; 
By  the  childless  parent's  misery  ; 
By  the  lives  which  he  hath  shed  ; 

By  the  ruin  he  hath  spread  ; 

By  the  prayers  which  rise  for  curses  on  his  head, — 
Redeem,  O  France  !  thine  ancient  fame, 
Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame. 
Open  thine  eyes  ! — too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 
Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 

By  those  horrors  which  the  night 
Witness'd  when  the  torches'  light 
To  the  assembled  murderers  show'd 
Where  the  blood  of  Conde  flow'd  ; 


ODE.  359 

By  the  murder'd  Pichegru's  fame  ; 
By  murder'd  Wright — an  English  name  ; 
By  murder'd  Palm's  atrocious  doom  ; 
By  murder'd  Hofer's  martyrdom,— 
Oh  !  by  the  virtuous  blood,  thus  vilely  spilt, 

The  villain's  own  peculiar,  private  guilt, 
Open  thine  eyes  ! —  too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 
Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind! 


LETTER    FROM    THE    KING    OF  ROME. 

IT  has  always  been  a  question  in  our  mind  what  turn 
matters  would  have  taken  had  Napoleon  reached  Paris 
before  the  allied  armies  in  the  great  race  for  that  city  in 
1814.  Victory  after  victory  had  crowned  his  efforts  to 
hold  back  the  tide,  fighting,  as  he  did,  against  odds  which 
would  have  appalled  the  stoutest  heart ;  but  all  his  efforts 
were  of  no  avail.  The  resistless  torrent  of  numbers 
swept  onward  and  forward  and  forced  him  to  turn  aside 
from  his  victorious  course  in  order  to  endeavour  to  suc- 
cour Paris,  then  sorely  in  need  of  his  personal  aid.  King 
Joseph  had  been  left  in  command  of  the  army  at  the 
capital  with  orders  to  defend  the  city  to  the  last  extrem- 
ity. Marmont  and  Morticr,  outside  the  walls,  strove  val- 
iantly to  hold  the  enemy  in  check  until  the  Emperor  might 
be  able  to  come  up  and  defend  the  city  in  person  ;  but  the 
task  was  too  heavy  a  one  to  be  carried  out  successfully. 
The  Allies  won  the  race  ;  defeated  Marmont  and  Morticr 
before  Napoleon  could  come  to  their  rescue,  and  Paris 
capitulated  after  a  short  but  heroic  defence.  Had  Joseph 
been  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  his  brother,  the  contest 
\vould  surely  have  been  kept  up  long  enough  to  enable- 
that  brother  to  get  within  the  gates  of  his  capital. 
But  Joseph  was  never  a  soldier.  Good  enough  in  his 
way,  he  lacked  that  which  would  have  buried  him  be- 
neath its  ruins  <ooner  than  have  permitted  him  to  sur- 


LETTER   FROM    THE    Kl\G   OF  ROME.  361 

render  the  city  which  had  been  so  sacredly  entrusted  to  his 
keeping.  Marie  Louise,  the  King  of  Rome,  and  the  Court 
had  left  the  city  ;  the  heir  to  the  throne  being  the  only  one 
\vlio  showed  any  reluctance  at  leaving  the  place  where 
honour  compelled  them  all  to  stay,  at  least  a  little  longer. 
As  usual,  the  English  writers  took  advantage  of  Na- 
poleon's misfortune  and  we  have  below  an  account,  from 
their  standpoint,  of  what  was  going  on  in  Paris  the  day 
before  the  entrance  of  the  allied  armies. 

LETTER    FROM    THE    KIM,  OF    1«>.\IE    TO    THK    EDITOR    OF 
THE    MORNlNi;    CHRONICLE,  DATED   Al'RII^tll,    1814. 

SlR, —  Having  retired  from  the  cares  of  government,  and 
the  toils  of  military  preparation,  to  study  agriculture  and 
the  fine  arts  with  my  Mamma  at  Rambouillet,  I  beg  to 
present  your  very  facetious  and  celebrated  Journal  with 
the  first  effusions  of  my  Muse,  viz.,  an  English  versifica- 
tion of  my  clear  Uncle  Joe's  Proclamation  to  Papa's  good 
city  of  Paris.  Your  obedient  servant, 

ROME. 

Brave  Lads  ot    Paris!   never  fear, 
Though  Bliicher's  torce  be  drawing  near  : 
1.  Joseph  Buonaparte,  am  here. 

The  Empress,  I  am  glad  to  say. 
And  little  Rome,  have  run  away. 
To  "  live  to  fight  another  day." 

But.  I  King  Joseph,  still  remain  ; 
I.  who  was  lately  sent  to  reign 
(  >ver  those  rebel  rogues  in  Spain  ; 

Who  play'd  our  toes  so  deep  a  game, 
\\  hen  o'er  the  Pyrenees  I   came, 
Invei<rlin:_!'  them  to  do  the-  same. 


362  A   METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

I  trick'd  the  British  to  advance, 
And  led  Lord  Wellington  a  dance 
Into  the  very  heart  of  France. 

Consider  with  what  wondrous  ease 
Your  Emperor  has  beaten  these, 
And  all  his  other  enemies. 

Consider  all  he  hath  achiev'd, 

In  Bulletins,  by  us  receiv'd, 

And,  under  pain  of  death,  believ'd. 

Look  on  those  foes  before  your  gate; 
Consider  how  he  did  of  late 
The  whole  of  them  annihilate. 

Consider,  too,  the  happy  plot, 
By  which  behind  them  he  has  got, 
Whether,  I  'in  told,  he  would  or  not. 

Believe  me  he  will  soon  be  here  ; 

Already  he  is  in  their  rear  ; 

See  how  they  hither  run  for  fear  ! 

He  drove  them  here  to  meet  their  fate, 

And  (if  they  for  his  coming  wait) 

He  '11  drive  them  through  the  city  gate 

Or  else,  perhaps,  upon  the  plain, 
With  scornful  eye  and  proud  disdain, 
Annihilate  them  all  again. 

Meanwhile,  't  is  requisite  and  right 

For  every  citizen  to  fight 

A  da}-  or  two  with  all  his  might. 


THE  PARTING  WITH  THE   EAGLES,   1814. 

FANCY  can  only  picture  the  scene  when  Napoleon 
learned  that  his  beloved  Paris  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
Allies,  and  that  his  herculean  efforts  to  save  the  city  had 
failed.  There  was  still  left  him  Fontainebleau,  and  the 
army  remained  faithful,  but  how  different  everything  was 
from  the  former  days  of  his  power  and  glory.  Then,  the 
mighty  in  France  looked  up  at  him  and  were  dazzled  as 
with  the  brilliancy  of  the  sun  ;  now,  all  save  his  old  sol- 
diers fled  from  him  as  if  he  were  the  betrayer  of  his  coun- 
try and  a  thing  to  be  despised.  The  desertion  of  Mar- 
mont.  his  comrade-in-arms  since  the  days  of  Toulon,  was 
cowardly  in  the  extreme;  but  it  was  only  in  keeping  with 
the  fashion  of  the  clay.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  he 
sought  relief  in  death  by  his  own  hands?  But  relief  was 
not  to  come.  He  had  still  to  bear  Waterloo  and  St. 
Helena;  he  had  still  to  pay  the  penalty  of  being  great. 
Forced  by  circumstances  beyond  his  control,  he  signed 
his  first  abdication,  and  Elba  was  determined  upon  as  the 
place  of  his  future  abode.  1 1  is  parting  with  the  Old 
Guard  has  been  faithfully  depicted  on  canvas  by  Vernet, 
and  also  well  told  by  Thornbury  in  verse. 

Till-;    PARTING    \VITH    TIIK    KAGLKS,    1X14. 
(I.-24 — The  Soldier's  Wife  l<>  lu-r  I'.ny,  the  Drummer.) 

W.M.l  KR    TllOKNIU'RY. 

An  April  morning!    Fontainebleau 
Stands  up  and  braves  the  sun  ; 

The  dew  still  glitters   on  the  turf 
Where  rabbits  race  and  run  ; 
363 


364  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

No  hunting  clamour  breaks  the  hush. 
No  hound,  or  echoing  hoof, 

But  sprinkling  gold  falls  on  the  moat 
And  slants  athwart  the  roof. 

A  lonely  day,  and  Fontainebleau 

Broods  o'er  its  memories — 
So  old,  and  yet  the  April  bloom 

Is  white  upon  the  trees. 
Ten  Rasters  since  !   a  different  scene 

Was  lit  by  yonder  sun. 
When  through  those  rosy  almond  boughs 

Roared  the  meridian  gun  ! 

That  palace  with   its  thousand  eyes 

Indeed  might  look  aghast, 
As  the  last  scene  that  closed  the  play 

Before  its  windows  passed. 
"  What  do  they  call  that  marble  horse. 

Just  like  ours  in  Sedan  — 
A  horse  for  Cajsar,  lion  mancd  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  Cheval  Blanc." 

This  is  the  horse-shoe  staircase  where 

The  Rmperor  came  down, 
No  blood\'  sceptre  in  his  hand, 

Nor  lighting-woven  crown, 
But  like  a  simple  soldier  clad, 

In  his  plain  grey  surtout, 
And  underneath  the  epaulettes 

The  red  that  faced  the  blue. 

That  noble  tree  that  sheltered  us 
With  its  extended  branch, 

\\  as  smit  by  steal  and  split  by  fire  — 
Revanche,  mon  1  )ieu,  revanche! 


THE   PARTING    WITH    THE   EAGLES.  365 

The  cruel  frosts  of  Winter  came 
And  stripped  the  dying  trunk  ; 

The  leaves  were  crowns,  the  boughs  were  kings- 
Brave  blood  the  tree  had  drunk. 

The  traitor  dukes  and  subject  kings 

Fell  off  like  Autumn  leaves, 
As  stripped  as  when  the  April  time 

Laughs  as  old  Winter  grieves. 
Like  blossoms  from  that  wind-scourged  thorn 

The  traitors  dropped  from  him  — 
No  wonder  that  his  head  was  bent 

And  that  his  eye  was  dim. 

Shall  I  forget  that  April  noon  ? 

The  carriages  in  line. 
Like  funeral  hearses  slowly  came 

Through  slanting  sunbeams'  shine. 
Who  did  they  wait  for — Balliard, 

Bussy,  or  Montesquieu, 
La  Place,   Jouanne,  or  Athalin, 

Yansowich   or  Flahaut  ? 

The  rest  are  gone,  with  sneer  or  jest, 

Regret,  or  fierce  rebuke, — 
Lven  the  valet  lured  away 

Last  night  the  Mameluke. 
When  Xey  was  false,  who  could  expect 

A  scullion  to  be  true  ? 
Yet  still  around  the  close-shut  gate 

1  saw  a  faithful  few. 

"\  es.  still  the  old  Imperial  Guard 

\\  ere  under  arms  in  line — 
Old  friends  ot  Austerlit/ — the  same 

In  snow,  or  rain,  <  >r  shine. 


366  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Immovable,  a  wall  of  steel, 

You  might  have  thought  them  dead, 

But  for  the  sullen  smouldering  fire- 
That  in  their  eyes  shone  red. 

One  strikes,  and  through  the  opening  door 

Napoleon  appears  ; 
The  ruffle  of  the  drum  was  heard, 

Like  thunder  came  the  cheers  ; 
The  crimson  flags  blew  in  and  out, 

The  tremble  of  the  steel 
Was  visible,  most  visible  !— 

What  !  Frenchmen  and  not  feel  ? 

Their  caps  upon  the  bayonets  shook 

As  when  a  conqueror  comes 
To  greet  his  soldiers — faster  speed 

The  rolling  of  the  drums. 
And  then  a  death-like  hush  so  deep — 

You  heard  the  thoughtless  bird 
Upon  the  rosy  almond  bloom 

A  sprinkling  snow  had  furred. 

You  heard  his  measured  steps,  as  quick 

He  came  down  yonder  stairs, 
His  hand  extended  for  those  hands 

Held  out  to  him  in  pairs. 
He  was  among  them,  ringed  with  steel, 

Erect  and  stern  as  when 
The  foes  he  sought  to  crush  at  last 

Were  gathered  in  his  ken. 

"  Farewell,  my  children  ;  bring  the  flag 

For  me  to  kiss  and  bless  ; 
The  dying  father  thinks  of  thce 

In  joy  or  in  distress. 


THE   PARTING    WITH    THE   EAGLES.  367 

For  twenty  years  this  eagle  led 

Our  tramplers  on  kings, 
We  who  lit  fires  with  sceptre-staffs, 

And  counted  crowns  base  things. 

"  We  now  must  part.     With  men  like  you 

I  could  have  fought  for  years ; 
But  then  our  country  had  been  drenched 

With  blood  and  mothers'  tears. 
I  leave  you,  but  ye  still  will  serve 

France,  that  we  so  much  love : 
God  guard  her  from  the  ravening  hawk 

As  angels  guard  the  dove. 

"  Farewell  and  brave,  a  long  farewell — 

'T  is  very  hard  to  part  ; 
Would  I  could  press  my  children  all 

Unto  their  father's  heart." 
They  brought  the  flag  that  Bertrand  bore, 

He  clasped  it  to  his  arms  ; 
Not  one  but  wept,  the  fiercest  there — 

The  drum  beat  the  alarms. 

The  bayonets  shook,  the  storm}-  shout 

Burst  like  a  thunder-clap, 
How  lightning-quick  the  fiery  beat 

Of  the  fierce  drummer's  tap  !- 
A  dash  of  hoofs — the  carriage  broke 

Impetuous  through  the  crowd. 
And  after  it  the  rolling  dust 

Rose  in  a  blinding  cloud. 


ODE    ON    THE    DELIVERANCE    OF    EUROPE. 

1814. 

FOR  twenty  years  Europe  had  been  drenched  with 
blood.  From  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  the 
a\\  ful  carnage  had  gone  on  without  ceasing.  Waiving 
the  question  of  whether  or  not  Napoleon,  alone,  was  re- 
sponsible for  all  this  misery  and  woe,  it  is  an  undeniable 
fact  that  the  peace  of  1814  came  as  a  welcome  boon  to 
many  a  household.  It  was  then  thought,  and  with  good 
reason,  that  peace  had  come  to  stay  and  that  France,  re- 
duced to  the  boundaries  of  the  Revolution,  would  no 
longer  be  an  element  of  disturbance  in  the  politics  of 
Europe.  \Ycll  might  the  people  imagine  they  had  cause 
to  rejoice.  But  did  not  the  fallen  chieftain  in  his  little 
island  home  deserve,  at  least,  pity  ?  He  had  paid  a  fear- 
ful price  that  the  world  might  slumber  without  being 
aroused  by  the  thunder  of  his  guns.  Whether  FYance 
would  remain  content  under  the  new  order  of  things,  and 

O 

whether  her  old  soldiers  would  consent  to  leave  their  be- 
loved "  Little  Corporal  "  to  languish  in  exile,  a  few  short 
months  would  determine.  The  people,  for  the  time  be- 
ing, at  least,  were  satisfied. 

ODE    OX    THE    IJEEIYERAXCE    OE    EUROPE,     1814. 

!«;IN  HKKMAN  MF.KIYAI.E. 


ODE   ON    THE   DELIVERANCE   OF  EUROPE.         369 

From  hostile  shore  to  shore 
The  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  ; 
But  friendly  beacons  o'er  the  billows  shine, 

To  light,  as  to  their  common  home, 
The  barks  of  every  port  that  cut  the  salt  sea  foam. 

"  Peace  to  the  nations  !  "•—  Peace  ! 

O  sound  of  glad  release 
To  millions  in  forgotten  bondage  lying ; 

In  joyless  exile  thrown 

On  shores  remote,  unknown, 
Where  hope  herself,  if  just  sustain'd  from  dying. 

Yet  sheds  so  dim  and  pale  a  light, 
As  makes  creation  pall  upon  the  sickening  sight. 

"  Peace  !   Peace  the  world  around  !  " 
O  strange,  yet  welcome  sound 
To  myriads  more  that  ne'er  beheld  her  face  ; 
And,  if  a  doubtful  fame 
Yet  handed  down  her  name 
In  faded  memory  of  an  elder  race, 
It  seem'd  some  visionary  form. 
Some  Ariel,  fancy-bred,  to  soothe  the  mimic  storm. 

Now  the  time-honour'd  few 

Her  earlier  reign  that  knew, 
May  turn  their  eyes  back  o'er  that  dreamy  flood, 

And  think  again  they  stand 

On  the  remember'd  land, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  had  risen  in  clouds  of  blood, 

Ere  launch'd  the  chance-directed  bark 
On  that  vast  world  of  ocean,  measureless  and  dark. 

And  is  it  all  a  dream  ? 
And  did  these  things  but  seem 
The  vain  delusions  of  a  troubled  sight  ? 


3/O  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Or,  if  indeed  they  were, 
For  what  did  nature  bear 
The  long  dark  horrors  of  that  fearful  night  ? 

Only  to  breathe  and  be  once  more 

Even    as   she    was    and    breathed    upon    that    former 
shore. 

O'er  this  wild  waste  of  time, 
This  sea  of  blood  and  crime, 
Doth  godlike  virtue  rear  her  awful  form, 
Only  to  cheat  the  sight 
With  wandering,  barren  light, 
The  meteor,  not  the  watch-fire,  or  the  storm  ? 

The  warrior's  deed,  the  poet's  strain, 
The    statesman's    anxious  toil,  the  patriot's  sufferings 
vain. 

For  this  did  Louis  lay, 

In  Gallia's  sinful  day, 
On  the  red  altar  his  anointed  head  ? 

For  this  did  Nelson  pour, 

In  Britain's  glorious  hour, 

More  precious  blood  than  Britain  e'er  had  shed  ? 
And  did  their  winged  thoughts  aspire, 
Even  in  the  parting  soul's  prophetic  trance,  no  higher? 

Ye  tenants  of  the  grave, 

Whom  unseen  wisdom  gave 
To  watch  the  shapeless  mist  o'er  earth  extending 

Yet  will'd  to  snatch  away 

Before  the  appointed  day 
Of  light  rcnew'd,  and  clouds  and  darkness  ending, 

Oh,  might  ye  now  permitted  rise, 
Cast  o'er  this  wondrous  scene  your  unobstructed  eyes. 


ODE   ON   THE  DELIl'ERAKCE   OF  E UK OPE.         371 

And  say,  O  thou,  whose  might. 

Bulwark  of  England's  right, 
Stood  forth,  the  might  of  Chatham's  lordly  son  ; 

Thou  "  on  whose  burning  tongue 

Truth,  peace,  and  freedom  hung," 
When  freedom's  ebbing  sand  almost  had  run. 

To  the  deliver'd  world  declare 
That  each  hath  seen  fulfill'd  his  latest,  earliest  prayer. 

Rejoice,  kings  of  the  earth  ! 
But  with  a  temperate  mirth  ; 

The  trophies  ye  have  won,  the  wreathes  ye  wear — 
Power  with  his  red  right  hand. 
And  empire's  despot  brand, 
Had  ne'er  achieved  these  proud  rewards  ye  bear; 

But,  in  one  general  cause  combined, 
The  people's  vigorous  arm,  the  monarch's  constant  mind. 

Yet  that  untired  by  toil, 

Unsway'd  by  lust  of  spoil, 
Unmoved  by  fear,  or  soft  desire  of  rest. 

Ye  kept  your  onward  course 

With  un remitted  force, 
And  to  the  distant  goal  united  press'd  : 

The  soldier's  bed,  the  soldier's  fare. 
II  is  dangers,  wants,  and  toils,  alike  resolved  to  share. 

And  more  — that  when  at  length. 
Exulting  in  our  strength, 
In  tyranny  o'erthrown,  and  victory  won. 
Before  you  lowly  laid, 
Your  dancing  eyes  survey  d 
The  prostrate  form  of  humbled  Babylon, 

Ye  cried,  "  Enough  !  "—  and  at  the  word 
Vengeance  put  out   her  torch,  and   slaughter  sheath'd 
his  sword — 


372  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Princes,  be  this  your  praise 
And  ne'er  in  after  days 

Let  faction  rude  that  spotless  praise  profane, 
Or  dare  with  license  bold 
The  impious  falsehood  hold, 
That  Europe's  genuine  kings  have  ceased  to  reign, 

And  that  a  weak  adulterate  race, 

Degenerate    from    their  sires,  pollutes   high   honour's 
place. 

Breathe,  breathe  again,  ye  free, 

The  air  of  liberty, 
The  native  air  of  wisdom,  virtue,  joy ! 

And,  might  ye  know  to  keep 

The  golden  wealth  ye  reap, 
Not  thrice  ten  years  of  terror  and  annoy, 

Of  mad  destructive  anarchy, 
And  pitiless  oppression,  were  a  price  too  high. 

Vaulting  ambition  ! 

Thy  bloody  laurels  torn, 
And  ravish'd  from  thy  grasp  the  sin-bought  prize ; 

Or,  if  thy  meteor  fame 

Still  win  the  world's  acclaim, 
Let  it  behold  thee  now  with  alter'd  eyes, 

And  pass,  but  with  a  pitying  smile, 
The  hopc-abandon'd  chief  of  Elba's  lonely  isle. 


MARIE   LOUISE. 
I  -..in  an  engraving  l.y  F.  \V.   liollinger.   after  Monsonm  (Vienna,  i8i,.| 

T.   B.  Schiavunetti,  lierlin  (IK.  Jate). 


MARIE  LOUISE. 

THE  conduct  of  Marie  Louise  at  the  time  of  Napoleon's 
downfall  was  everything  bu-t  creditable  to  her.  The  stand 
she  should  have  taken  was  to  have  insisted  that  she  be 
allowed  to  accompany  him  to  Elba.  But  such  a  thought 
never  entered  her  head,  seriously,  and  it  would  seem  that 
she  lost  all  further  interest  or  concern  in  her  late  royal 
consort  the  moment  he  ceased  to  be  Emperor  of  France. 
She  certainly  proved  by  her  course  of  life,  immediately 
upon  Napoleon's  banishment,  that  she  had  no  love  for 
him,  and  that  she  was  utterly  indifferent  to  any  disgrace 
she  might  cast  upon  his  name,  or  to  any  loss  of  her  own 
personal  reputation,  for  we  find  her  the  mother  of  chil- 
dren by  an  Austrian  prince,  himself  a  reputed  natural 
child,  even  before  her  husband's  death,  and  we  find  her 
marrying  that  same  prince,  morganatically,  as  soon  as  she 
could  do  so  without  committing  the  crime  of  bigamy. 
Napoleon  had  thought  to  strengthen  his  own  position 
when  he  married  the  Austrian  archduchess,  and  Marie 
Louise  had  been  willing  enough  to  fancy  she  could  love 
him — the  mightiest  ruler  in  the  world.  Both  were  mis- 
taken, and  the  fate  of  the  one  was  not  more  sad  than  that 
of  the  other. 

MARIK    LoriSK. 

AN  ON. 
Who  journeys  thus  onward, 

Light-hearted  and  gay. 
As  it   to  a  triumph 

She  passed  on  her  way  ? 


374  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

No  exile,  most  surely — 
Not  thus  do  they  come, 

Who  are  leaving  behind  them 
A  heart  and  a  home. 

Can  she  go  so  lightly, 

And  joyously  back, 
Who  went  to  her  bridal 

So  late  o'er  this  track? 
Could  she  smile  as  when  hastening 

To  welcoming  arms, 
If  shut  from  the  circle 

Of  home  and  its  charms  ? 

Oh,  matchless  in  beauty, 

And  kingly  in  line! 
No  heart  of  a  woman 

Can  surely  be  thine  : 
Else  wouldst  thou,  this  moment, 

Thy  husband  uncrowned, 
Weep  in  sackcloth  and  ashes, 

And  sit  on  the  ground. 

Is  this,  proud  Napoleon, 

The  pride  of  thy  home  ? 
Can  this  be  thy  mother, 

O  pale  King  of  Rome  ? 
Alas  !   we  may  mourn  thee, 

Hut  pity  who  can, 
More  fickle  than  woman, 

.And  falser  than  man. 

It  was  well  that  the  exile, 

Shut  in  by  the  sea. 
Still  might  solace  his  anguish 

Hy  memory  of  thee — 


MARIE   LOUISE.  375 

Still  could  keep  through  all  suffering. 

Of  body  and  mind, 
One  blest  spot  in  memory 

Where  thou  wert  enshrined  ; 

Trusting  on  in  a  faith 

Which  no  time  could  remove, 
In  the  strength  of  thy  virtue, 

And  depth  of  thy  love  ; 
For  his  heart,  but  for  this, 

In  its  hardness  had  been 
As  the  rocks  of  the  ocean 

That  girdled  him  in. 

Oh  regally  wedded, 

And  regally  born  ! 
Not  thy  state  nor  thy  beauty 

Can  save  thee  from  scorn  ; 
And  more  deeply  \ve  mourn  thee, 

Content  in  thy  home, 
Than  the  Emperor  exiled, 

Or  dead  Kin"-  of  Rome. 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON. 

WHEN  Byron  wrote  his  Ode  to  Napoleon  he  little 
thought  that  Waterloo  and  St.  Helena  were  still  to 
come  ;  that  France  had  yet  to  suffer  more  terribly  than 
she  had  before  she  would  finally  consent  to  give  up  her 
idol.  The  judgment  pronounced  by  Byron  upon  the 
great  Corsican  agreed  with  that  of  all  contemporary  Eng- 
lish writers;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  if  this  same  poet 
were  writing  upon  the  same  subject  to-day  he  would 
judge  him  in  a  far  more  favourable  light.  It  has  taken 
nearly  a  century  of  study  to  place  this  wonderful  char- 
acter, and  it  is  only  now  that  the  true  history  of  Napo- 
leon is  beginning  to  be  known.  Byron  Avas  a  lover  of 
glory  and  of  military  greatness,  but  his  English  blood 
would  not  allow  him  to  do  justice  to  the  man  who  should 
have  been  his  model. 

ODE    TO    NAPOLEON. 

LORD  PiVRON. 

'T  is  done — but  yesterday  a  King  ! 

And  arm'd.with  Kings  to  strive- 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing  ; 

So  abject — yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strew'd  our  hearth  with  hostile  bones. 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he  miscall'd  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON.  377 

Ill-minded  man  !  why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bovv'd  so  lo\v  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestion'd — power  to  save, — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition  's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — it  will  teach 

The  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife — 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey. 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife — 
All  quell'd-  -Dark  Spirit  !   what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  ! 

The  Desolator  desolate! 

The  Victor  overthrown  ! 
The  Arbiter  of  other's  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 


378  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 

That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince — or  live  a  slave — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke — 
Alone — how  look'd   he  round  ? 

Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 
And  darker  fate  hast  found  ! 

He  fell  the  forest  prowler's  prey  ; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away  ! 

The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home — 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  sco.rn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne. 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  s\vay 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell. 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell  ; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 

His  dotage  trifled  well: 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON.  379 

But  thou — from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung  ; 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung  ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean  ! 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  Monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne  ! 
Fair  Freedom  !  may  we  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh  !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind  ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain  : 
If  thou  hast  died  as  honour  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again — 
Hut  who  could  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away  : 


380  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate. 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  ; 

Nor  decm'd  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she,  too,  bend — must  she,  too,  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem  ; 
'T  is  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea  ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand, 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou,  Timour  !  in  his  captive's  cage 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine. 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage? 
But  one —  "  The  world  was  mine  !  " 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth — 
So  lon^  obev'd — so  little  worth  ! 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON.  381 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven. 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock? 
Foredoom'd  by  God — by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  the  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock  ; 
He,  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died  ! 


THE  TWO  GRENADIERS. 

THE  rank  and  file  of  the  army  remained  true  to  Napo- 
leon, even  after  he  had  been  betrayed  and  deserted  by  the 
officers  who  had  risen  from  among  their  number  to  high 
positions  of  trust  and  honour.  The  Old  Guard,  as  a  body, 
would  gladly  have  accompanied  their  chief  to  Elba  had 
they  been  permitted  to  do  so.  It  was  from  the  ranks 
Napoleon  himself  had  sprung  ;  it  was  the  old  soldiers  who 
had  made  it  possible  for  marshals,  dukes,  and  princes  to 
blazon  with  the  reflected  splendour  and  glory  of  the  Con- 
sulate and  the  Empire,  and  now,  they  were  the  only  ones 
who  could  not  forget.  They  were  loyal  to  the  man  who 
had  been  loyal  to  them  ;  the  man  they  adored  ;  the  man 
who  had  performed  such  wonders,  through  them,  for 
France. 

THE  TWO  GRENADIERS. 
(April,    1814.) 

JKAN  PIERRE  HE  BERANGER. 

[The  reader  will  remember  that  the  first  abdication  of 
Napoleon  took  place  at  Fontainebleau,  at  the  date  above 
mentioned.  In  calling  Glory  the  godmother,  and  the 
Emperor  the  godfather  of  his  Marshals,  the  poet  alludes 
to  the  fact,  that  nearly  all  of  them  bore  in  their  titles  the 
names  of  the  respective  battle-fields,  whereon  they  had  dis- 
tinguished themselves.] 

First  Grenadier. 

Our  post  has  been  forgotten  in  the  rounds  ; 
Richard,  hark  !  midnight  at  the  palace  sounds. 


THE    TWO   GRENADIERS.  383 

Second  Grenadier. 

Once  more  we  turn  to  Italy  our  view  ; 

For,  with  to-morrow,  Fontainebleau,  adieu  ! 

First  Grenadier. 

By  Heaven  I  swear,  and  thank  it  too  the  while, 
'T  is  a  fair  climate  blesses  Elba's  isle. 

Second  Grenadier. 

Were  it  far  distant,  deep  in  Russia's  snow, 
Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

Together. 

Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

Second  Grenadier. 

How  quick  they  came,  the  fights  we  failed  to  win  ! 
Where  now  are  Moscow,  Wilna,  and  Berlin  ? 
Again  the  flames,  that  wrapped  the  Kremlin,  seem 
Bright  on  our  serried  bayonets  to  gleam  : 
And  Paris  given  up,  through  traitors  lost. 
Paris  itself  has  scarce  one  battle  cost  ! 
Our  cartouch-boxes  were  not  empty — no  ! 
Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

First    Grenadier. 

On  every  side,  "  He  abdicates,"  I  hear: 

Comrade,  what's  that?  pray  make  the  meaning  clear. 

Our  old  Republic  seek  they  to  restore? 


384  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Second  Grenadier. 

No  !   for  they  bring  us  back  a  king  once  more, 
The  Emperor's  crowns  a  hundred-fold  might  shine 
I  can  conceive  that  he  would  all  resign  : 
As  alms,  his  hand  of  old  would  crowns  bestow  ! 
Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

First  Grenadier. 

The  palace  windows  are  but  dull  to-night ; 
Look  there  's  one  faint  and  solitary  light. 

Second  Grenadier. 

Yes  !   for  the  valets,  nobly  born  and  bred, 
Hiding  their  noses  in  their  cloaks,  have  fled  : 
All,  stripping  off  the  lace  from  their  costumes, 
Prompt  to  dispose  of  the  dead  eagle's  plumes, 
To  the  new  chieftain  of  the  State  bend  low. 
Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

First  Grenadier. 

The  Marshals  too,  our  comrades  once  of  old, 
They  have  deserted,  now  they  're  gorged  with  gol 

Second  Grenadier. 

To  buy  their  grades  successively,  we  bled  : 
Joy,  that  we  've  still  some  drops  of  blood  to  shed  ! 
What !  their  godmother  Glory's  self  became, 
On  field  of  battle  giving  each  his  name  ; 
Vet  their  god-father  thus  aside  they  throw  ! 
Old  irrenadicrs,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 


THE    TWO   GRENADIEKS.  385 

First  Grenadier. 

In  service  five  and  twenty  years  I  've  past, 
And  meant  my  furlough  to  have  begged  at  last. 

Second  Grenadier. 

And  I,  all  seamed  with  scars,  felt  sonic  desire 

From  our  old  colours  also  to  retire  ; 

But  after  drinking  all  the  liquor  up, 

'T  was  base  ingratitude  to  break  the  cup  ! 

Farewell,  wife,  children,  country  !  be  it  so  ! 

Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 
i 

Together. 
Old  grenadiers,  let  us  with  an  old  soldier  go  { 


JOSEPHINE. 

JOSEPHINE  would  gladly  have  shared  Napoleon's  exile 
at  Klba  had  he  permitted  her  to  do  so.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  for  many  years  before  her  death  Josephine 
loved  the  Emperor,  and  was  to  him  a  devoted  and  a  loyal 
wife.  In  the  early  days  of  their  marriage  and  up  to  the 
time  of  his  return  from  Egypt,  her  conduct  was  not  such 
as  his  fiery  and  passionate  nature  could  well  submit  to. 
Whether  all  the  rumours  that  were  then  circulated  about 
her  were  true  or  not  is  not  within  our  province  to  settle. 
She  was,  in  more  than  one  sense,  a  noble  woman  and 
the  one,  above  all  others,  to  fill  the  difficult  position  she 
was  called  upon  to  occupy.  Her  tact  was  wonderful,  and 
she  could  often  successfully  manage  her  imperious  hus- 
band when  it  was  hopeless  for  any  one  else  to  undertake 
the  task.  Many  a  pardon  did  this  fair  suppliant  obtain, 
merely  by  the  force  of  her  own  loveliness  and  her  supe- 
rior wisdom  in  knowing  how  and  when  to  approach  the 
throne.  Generous  and  extravagant  to  a  fault,  she  re- 
ceived main"  a  scolding  for  her  kindness  to  others  and  for 
her  lavish  use  of  money  upon  herself.  She  was  naturally 
a  royalist,  and  Napoleon,  had  he  acceded  to  her  wishes, 
would  never  have  assumed  the  crown.  lie  would  have 
restored  the  King,  and  to  have  been  the  wife  of  the  High 
Constable  of  France  would  have  pleased  Josephine  better 


THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE. 
From  an  engraving  by  Dean,  after  an  original  miniature 

London,  1831 


JOSEPHINE.  387 

than  being  Empress.  After  the  divorce  Josephine  lived 
at  Malmaison,  and  there,  within  a  month  after  Napoleon's 
departure  for  Elba,  she  died.  The  prophecy  of  the  old 
negress  at  Martinique  had  come  to  pass  in  its  comple- 
tion ;  the  end  had  come  as  it  had  been  foretold. 

JOSEPHINE. 

KK.V.  JOSKPH  II.  NICHOLS. 

'T  is  evening,  on  a  purple  southern  sea  : 
The  large  thick  stars,  in  tropic  purity, 
Are  flashing  from  the  blue,  unbending  skies, 
On  a  lone  isle,  that  green  beneath  them  lies. 
Out  in  full  blossom  shine  the  orange  groves, 

o       o 

And  lo  !  amid  their  bowers  a  maiden  roves — 

A  fair,  West  Indian  girl  ;  then  takes  her  seat 

To  breathe  the  fragrance  of  those  flowers  so  sweet. 

She  touches  her  guitar,  and  with  a  strain 

Of  superhuman  softness,  doth  enchain 

The  winds  in  silence  :  smiling  in  their  sleep, 

Repose  the  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep. 

To  join  her,  soon  comes  forth  a  virgin  band 

Of  her  companions,  tripping  hand  in  hand. 

A  slave  strikes  up  the  tabourine,  and  she 

Floats  in  the  dance  to  some  wild  island  glee  ;  . 

In  peerless  elegance  that  maid  moves  on, 

Of  all  her  sex,  in  grace  the  paragon. 

Her  dark  eye  kindles  with  imperial  light. 

A  golden  crown  is  glittering  in  her  sight, 

For  some  gray  prophetess  foretold,  ere  now, 

A  diadem  should  decorate  her  brow. 

Again,  broad  daylight  sheds  its  sunny  smile 
Within  a  tall  cathedral's  ancient  pile  ; 


388  A    METRICAL   IIISTOKY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Along  the  aisles,  brave  men,  line  after  line, 

Beneath  their  banners  in  bright  armour  shine  ; 

The  galleries  gleam  with  beauty's  jewelled  forms, 

And  warlike  music  every  bosom  warms. 

It  ceases  :  all  direct  their  anxious  gaze 

To  the  high  altar,  where,  amid  the  blaze 

Of  princesses  and  princes,  stand  alone 

A  man  and  woman,  each  before  a  throne  : 

He,  the  stern  chief,  whose  footsteps  shook  the  globe  ; 

She,  in  that  long  and  royal  crimson  robe, 

Is  that  same  fair  West  Indian.     One  rich  crown 

He  puts  on  his  own  brow  ;  then,  she  kneels  down, 

And  modestly,  from  his  small  hand  receives 

Another  crown — a  wreath  of.  golden  leaves, 

Upon  her  forehead  ;  while  his  eagle  glance, 

Reflecting  hers,  proclaims  her  Queen  of  France. 

The  trumpet  peals  it  forth  in  joyous  swells, 

And  far  as  her  green  isle  the  tidings  tell. 

Again,  in  Malmaison,  that  lady  's  seen, 
A  wife,  yet  no  wife  ;  a  queen,  yet  not  a  queen. 
If  nature's  charms  could  ever  banish  grief, 
The  heaviest  bosom  there  might  find  relief : 
The  garden  blooms,  the  fountain  flows  in  vain  ; 
Not  Eden's  scenery  could  assuage  her  pain. 
lie,  who  his  greatness  owed  to  her  alone, 
Has  called  another  bride  to  share  his  throne! 
Discarded,  she  loves  still,  and  woman's  tears 
She  sheds,  when  of  her  hero's  fall  she  hears. 
Too  sharp  the  trial !      Pensive,  day  by  day, 
She  sits,  and  pines,  at  last,  her  life  away. 
Now  cold,  and  closed  in  death's  meek  sleep  her  eyes, 
Pale  on  her  bier,  the  lovely  Empress  lies  ! 
\\  liite  as  her  shroud,  her  crossed  hands  calmly  rest 
Upon  that  generous  and  confiding  breast. 


JOSEPHINE.  389 

There,  her  lone  orphans  love's  last  vigil  keep. 
And  earth's  great  kings  pass  by,  and  muse  and  weep, 
Oh,  what  young  maiden  here  would  be  a  queen, 
Who  thinks  of  thy  sad  fate,  poor  Josephine  ! 
Who  would  not  rather,  than  of  courts  the  pride, 
Be  gathering  berries  on  the  mountain  side  ? 


NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

TlIK  rejoicing  was  almost  universal  in  the  Uniten  States 
when  the  news  came  that  the  Emperor  of  France  had 
been  driven  from  his  country  and  that  the  Bourbons  were 
again  in  power.  The  success  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion and  the  freedom  from  tyranny  gained  thereby  were, 
in  a  great  measure,  the  forerunners  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution ;  from  which  came  the  Consulate  and  the  Empire, 
with  Napoleon  as  their  recognised  head.  Me  was  not  the 
true  product  of  a  revolution  based  on  an  American  idea 
of  liberty,  and,  consequently,  the  verdict  in  this  country, 
at  that  time,  was  against  him.  Since  then,  however,  this 
wonderful  man  has  been  diligently  studied  by  American 
historians,  and,  as  he  has  become  better  known,  senti- 
ment has  changed  concerning  him  ;  until  to-day  he  has 
friends  and  admirers  in  this  country,  second  in  number 
only  to  those  in  France. 

The  following  ode  was  written  by  L.  M.  Sargent,  Esq., 
and  read  at  a  religious  service  held  at  the  Stone  Chapel 
in  Boston,  in  1814,  "in  commemoration  of  the  goodness 
of  (iod  in  delivering  the  Christian  world  from  Military 
Despotism  "  :  the  occasion  being  the  downfall  of  Napo- 
leon and  his  exile  to  Elba. 

39" 


NAPOLEON  BOXAPARTK.  39! 

NAI'OI.KON    HOXAI'AKTK. 

L.   M.  SAK(;KNT. 

Where  turn  the  tyrant's  myrmidons 

Their  deadly  dark  array  ? 
Where  seek  they  laurels  dyed  in  blood 

To  crown  his  brows  to-day  .' 
What  tide  of  widow's  tears  shall  flow 

For  those  who  fight  no  more. 
Lying  slain,  on  the  plain 

Where  the  smoky  volumes  pour, 
Where  slaughter  rides  the  battle  blast 

And  bids  her  thunders  roar  ? 

France  !  at  the  throne  eternal 

Of  great  Jehovah  bow  ! 
For  Heaven's  avenging  thunderbolt 

Has  laid  the  tyrant  low  ; 
The  bloody,  baleful  star  shall  guide 

The  monster's  way  no  more. 
Where  the  slain  on  the  plain 

Lie  weltering  in  their  gore, 
And  through  a  thousand,  thousand  streams 

Life's  ebbing  torrents  pour. 

What  though  on  glory's  record 

1  he  wretch  his  name  enroll, 
'I  he  bitter  tears  of  orphan  France 

Shall  wash  it  from  the  scroll, 
Her  widows  in  the  despot's  ears 

An  endless  dirge  shall  pour  ; 
And  throw  round  his  brow. 

Where  laurels  late  lie  wore, 
A  wreath  of  deadly  nightshade  wrought 

Steeped  in  their  husband's  gore. 


392  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

O'er  the  tomb  of  hapless  Bourbon 

Be  mournful  honours  paid, 
Go,  loyal  maids  of  France,  and  weep 

Where  Antoinette  is  laid, 
Where  the  tyrant's  hemlock  withered 

And  fleur  de  Us  shall  blow, 
And  the  brave  round  the  grave 

Bid  their  manly  sorrow  flow, 
While  the  spirit  of  true  loyalty 

Shall  in  their  bosoms  glow. 

The  hand  of  Heaven,  whose  vengeance 

Is  'gainst  the  despot  hurled, 
To  France  her  rightful  king  restored 

And  freedom  to  the  world  ; 
Hosannas  to  the  King  of  kings 

Let  Freedom's  voice  bestow, 
Again  raise  the  strain 

Till  the  patriot's  heart  shall  glow, 
And  Heaven  on  high  approves  the  song 

Of  grateful  man  below. 


PETITION. 

NAPOLEON  was  no  sooner  landed  at  Elba  than  the 
horde  of  sycophants,  who  had  fawned  at  his  feet  when  he 
had  wealth  and  position  at  his  disposal,  hastened  to 
grovel  in  the  dust  before  Louis  XVIII.,  now  that  he  was 
the  one  in  power.  These  people  were  the  same  who 
had  deserted  Louis  XVI.  in  his  time  of  need  and  had 
cowardly  fled  their  country  to  escape  the  scaffold,  and 
who,  afterwards,  had  plotted  the  death  of  Napoleon  and 
the  overthrow  of  his  government.  These  were  the  men 
Napoleon  had  forgiven,  and  recalled  from  exile  to  ad- 
vance from  one  position  of  trust  and  confidence  to  an- 
other, until,  loaded  with  wealth,  they  were  able  to  strut 
about  in  all  their  old-time  glory.  Honour,  was  an  un- 
known word  with  them.  They  would  cringe  to-day  and 
bite  to-morrow.  In  a  few  short  months  this  same  ignoble 
crowd  would  be  tumbling  over  each  other  in  their  mad 
haste  to  show  their  servility  to  the  man  they  now  thought 
it  safe  to  sneer  at  and  despise. 

PETITION 

FOR     FREE    ENTRANCE    INTO    THE    GARDEN    OF    THE     TUILEKIES. 
PRESENTED    BY    THE     DOGS    OF    oUAEITY. 

(June,   1314.) 

JKAN  I'IF.KKK  UK  HHKANCKK. 

'One  of  the  numberless  satires,  that  were  caused  by  the 
sudden  reappearance  of  many  members  of  the  old  noblesse 
of  France,  immediately  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon  J 

Let  your  Chamberlain,  please  you,  decree 
That  to-morrow  we  do<rs  mav  obtain 


394  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Entrance  into  the  Tuileries,  free — 

We  who  're  from  the  St.  Faubourg  Germain. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

'T  is  our  collar  our  difference  shows 

From  the  dogs  who  the  pavement  frequent  ; 
For  such  vulgar  plebeians  as  those 

Royal  honours  could  never  be  meant. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

Though  as  long  as  we  bowed  to  his  yoke, 

The  usurper  aye  drove  us  away, 
When  a  host  of  importunate  folk 

Would  be  barking — we  never  said  nay  ! 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

Of  his  reign  should  you  memoirs  indite, 

Be  not  hard  on  some  changeable  brutes, 
Who  to-day  at  his  heels  snap  and  bite, 

Though  for  years  they  were  licking  his  boots. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

Tiny  spaniels,  and  terriers  mean. 

Something  better  than  fleas  having  met, 
Fawn  on  Russians  and  Germans,  I  ween, 

Who  with  blood,  that  is  French,  are  still  wet. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  tl°- 


What  if,  sure  her  vast  profits  to  net, 
Fngland  boast  of  her  victories  hi<jh  ; 


PETITION.  395 

Lumps  of  sugar  again  we  can  get, 

And  the  cats  lick  the  coffee-cups  dry. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  lo\v, 
Hinder  us  not ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

Since  our  dames  in  such  haste  retrograde, 

As  their  pinners  and  lappets  will  show  ; 
Since  again  holy  water  is  made, 

Pray,  replace  us  in  our  statn  quo. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  "s  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not  ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 

We  agree  in  return  for  his  grace, 

All  except  a  few  scrupulous  poodles, 
That  we  '11  fawn  on  the  holders  of  place, 

That  we  '11  bite  all  unfortunate  noodles. 
Now  we  are  sure  that  the  tyrant  's  laid  low, 
Hinder  us  not ;  we  would  frolicking  go. 


THE    ISLAND   FIEND. 

NAPOLEON  remained  at  Elba  a  little  over  nine  months. 
At  first  he  seemed  perfectly  content  with  his  lot.  He 
planned  and  worked,  with  his  accustomed  energy,  to  bet- 
ter the  condition  of  his  small  kingdom.  With  his  mother 
and  his  sister  Pauline  he  settled  down  into  a  life  which 
promised  to  be  one  of  real  good  to  all  concerned.  He 
took  it  for  granted  that  France  no  longer  wanted  him, 
and  had  the  treaty  of  Paris  been  faithfully  carried  out, 
and  had  the  Revolution  taught  Louis  XVIII.  how  to  deal 
with  his  subjects,  Waterloo  might  have  been  avoided. 
But  soon  rumours  of  discontent  at  home  reached  his  ears  ; 
the  annuity  awarded  him  in  the  treaty  he  did  not  re- 
ceive ;  his  own  private  resources  were  drawn  upon  until 
almost  exhausted,  and  he  was  compelled  to  stop  the 
improvements  he  had  already  commenced,  and  also  to  re- 
trench his  personal  expenses  ;  the  English  writers  contin- 
ued to  worry  and  harass  him  with  their  vile  slanders  ; 
and  the  English  Government  began  to  talk  of  removing 
him  from  Elba  to  a  safer  place,  and  one  farther  away  from 
France.  Is  it  strange  that  he  began  to  listen  to  the  hints 
given  him  that  his  return  was  the  only  possible  solution 
to  the  problem  staring  him  in  the  face,  and  that  if  he  did 
not  move  in  that  direction  a  worse  fate  than  the  one  he 
was  enduring  would  soon  be  his  ? 

The  following  is  but  one  of  the  innumerable  scurrilous 
productions  of  the  English  pen,  published  while  Napoleon 
was  virtual]}'  in  prison,  disarmed,  and  helpless. 


THE  ISLAND  FIEND.  397 

THE    ISLAM)    FIEND. 

ANON. 

To  the  island  of  Elba  a  demon  has  flown, 

The  horror  and  scourge  of  mankind  ; 
As  hard  as  the  iron,  and  cold  as  the  stone, 
Which  in  Elba's  dark  mines  and  her  quarries  are  known, 

Is  his  heart  to  all  evil  inclin'd. 

The  agent  of  Mischief  to  torture  the  world, 

His  brows  with  a  diadem  bound  ; 
But  the  genius  of  Virtue  her  standard  unfurTd, 
And  his  sons  thronging  round  from  his  pinnacle  hurl'd, 

And  struck  the  foul  fiend  to  the  ground. 

Condemn'd  in  this  island  imprison'd  to  sigh, 

His  passion  for  mischief  prevails  ; 

When  the  wind  whistles  loud,  and  the  wave  rises  high, 
He  lists  to  the  sound  of  the  mariner's  cry, 

And  smiles  at  the  storm-shatter'd  sails. 

Though  the  race  of   mankind  are  no  longer  his  prey, 

Still  cruelties  pleasure  supply  ; 
The  generous  dog  must  the  tyrant  obey. 
He  plucks  from  the  dove  her  soft  plumage  away. 

And,  Domitian-like,  tortures  the  fly. 

And  yet  he  has  moments  of  horror  and  fright, 

For  demons  will  tremble  and  fear, 

When  the  shadows  of  Pichegru,  Palm,  D'Enghien.  Wright, 
Appear  in  the  darkness  and  stillness  of   night, 

And  his  eye  sheds  the  cowardly  tear. 

Hope,  the  wretch's  last  friend,  from  his  bosom  lias  fled, 
The  fiend  looks  despairing  around  ; 


39$  --*    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Wherever  he  lies,  or  wherever  he  treads, 
Plants  noxious  to  life  rear  their  poisonous  heads, 
And  venomous  reptiles  are  found. 

Here  unpitied,  unwept,  till  the  final  decree, 

Let  the  blood-sated  demon  remain  ; 
In  vain  from  himself  still  attempting  to  flee, 
That  he  tastes  not  of  death  let  his  punishment  be. 
And  his  conscience  his  torturing  pain. 


THK     POLISH    LANCERS. 

WHKTHKK  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  1815  there 
was  an  actual  conspiracy  in  France,  having  for  its  object 
the  return  of  Napoleon,  and  numbering  among  its  mem- 
bers Hortense,  in  Paris,  and  Pauline,  at  Elba,  is  not  ma- 
terial to  our  purpose.  It  is  a  fact  that  at  that  time  the 
people  of  France,  and  the  old  soldiers,  especially,  were 
calling  in  subdued,  but  unmistakable  tones  for  the  return 
of  their  beloved  Emperor.  The  new  order  of  things  was 
not  at  all  to  their  liking.  Their  country  had  been  cut  up 
and  divided  among  the  Allies  ;  the  Old  Guard  had  been 
disbanded  and  mercenary  Swiss  soldiers  filled  the  places 
of  honour  a'round  the  throne.  The  old  warriors  who  had 
won  for  France  such  renowned  glory  upon  so  many  fields 
of  battle  were  not  accustomed  to  being  pushed  into  the 
back-ground  as  mere  hirelings  of  the  state,  and  they  be- 
gan to  grumble  at  the  usage  they  received,  and  in  order 
to  conceal  their  feelings  as  much  as  possible  from  the 
government,  the}'  met  at  their  clubs  and  the  cafes  and 
talked  and  sang  about  the  "Little  Corporal"  and  the 
glorious  victories  they  had  won  under  him.  Among  these 
old  soldiers  none  stood  more  firm  for  Napoleon,  or  more 
read}-  to  answer  his  ever}' call,  than  did  the  Polish  Lancers 
who  had  served  him  so  long  and  so  taithfully. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  sung 

3'W 


400  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

immediately  before  the  return  of  Napoleon  from  Elba. 
It  was  often  sung  at  the  Cafe  Montansier  in  the  Palais 
Royal,  where  the  half-pay  officers  looking  for  service  met 
nightly  with  the  officers  of  the  famous  regiment  of  Polish 
Lancers. 

THE    POLISH     LANCERS. 


In  Scandinavia's  region  chill, 

Resounded  loud  the  hero's  name  ; 
Poland  enslaved,  own'd  glory's  thrill, 

And  for  Napoleon  woke — and  fame  : 
Their  cruel  shackles  he  destroy'd, 

Gaul's  friend  no  longer  pined  a  slave, 
And  France  amidst  her  ranks  o'erjov'd, 

Enroll'd  the  Polish  Lancers  brave. 

Without  regret  these  sons  of  war, 

For  great  Napoleon  distant  strove; 
And  in  Iberian  wilds  afar 

An  harvest  rich  of  laurels  wove. 
Where'er  of  honour  rang  the  sound, 

They  flew  the  meed  of  fame  to  crave  : 
And  glory  faithful  still  was  found, 

Enlink'cl  with  the  Polish  Lancers  brave. 

When  fortune  in  her  wiles  array'd. 

When  treason  low'r'd  in  darkling  state, 
Combined  ;  the  courage  thus  betray'd 

Of  Gallia's  pride— Napoleon  great — 
As  yielding  up  his  arms  with  sighs, 

He  bade  farewell  in  accents  grave  ; 
Tears  then  were  seen  to  dew  the  eyes, 

Of  Poland's  feel  in  </  Lancers  bi  ave. 


THE  POLISH  LANCERS.  401 

'T  was  then  with  anguish  quite  o'crcome, 

Napoleon  cried — subdued  by  pain  ; 
"  Rejoin  once  more  your  cherish'd  home, 

Your  oaths  I  yield  ye  back  again." 
He  thought  when  on  the  exile's  ground, 

Save  Frenchmen  none  would  stem  the  wave  ; 
But  in  his  dreary  isle  he  found, 

A  band  of  Polish  Lancers  brave. 

O  ye  whom  glory  caused  to  share 

The  trophies  of  an  happier  hour  ! 
Just  Heaven  to  Poles  extend  thy  care, 

Enshield  their  fate  with  fostering  power  : 
But  if  assail'd  by  dread  alarms, 

Friends,  \ve  shall  ne'er  forget  to  save 
Our  gallant  brothers  join'd  in  arms, 

The  faithful  Polish  Lancers  brave. 


NAPOLEON    AT   MELUN. 

Ox  the  twenty-sixth  of  February,  1815,  Napoleon,  with 
less  than  one  thousand  men,  set  out  from  Elba  upon  one 
of  the  most  daring  enterprises  ever  undertaken  by  man. 
He  was  about  to  essay  the  task  of  regaining  the  throne, 
so  long  and  so  gloriously  held  by  him,  and  from  which 
he  had  so  lately  been  expelled  by  a  combination  of 
treachery  and  brute  force.  He  was  about  to  try  once 
more  his  strength  against  combined  Europe  with  over 
two  millions  of  armed  men  ready  to  take  the  field  against 
him.  From  his  old  soldiers  he  had  nothing  to  fear  and 
everything  to  hope  for,  and  it  was  upon  them  he  placed 
his  main  reliance  for  success.  On  the  first  of  March  he 
landed  with  his  little  army  upon  the  shores  of  France  at 
nearly  the  same  spot  where  he  had  landed  sixteen  years 
before  on  his  return  from  Egypt.  The  march  towards 
Paris  was  at  once  begun  and  every  step  of  the  way  proved 
an  ovation,  equal  to  what  it  would  have  been  in  the  palm- 
iest days  of  the  Empire  had  Napoleon  been  out  on  a 
journey  of  pleasure.  His  reception  at  Grenoble,  his 
meeting  with  Marshal  Ney,  and  main-  other  incidents  on 
the  road,  seem  more  like  romance  than  history.  Not  a 
shot  was  fired  ;  not  a  drop  of  blood  shed.  The  lilies  were 
thrown  aside  and  the  tri-colors  everywhere  displayed. 
Louis  XVIII.  and  the  Bourbon  princes  fled  in  terror  as 

402 


NAPOLEON  AT  MEI.i'N.  403 

the  rapidly  growing  army  advanced.  At  Fontainebleau 
the  Emperor  took  a  short  rest.  Half-way  between  that 
place  and  Paris  the  Bourbons  made  their  last  effort  to 
stop  the  triumphant  march  of  the  outlawed  Corsican. 
An  army  of  one  hundred  thousand  men  commanded  by 
the  Duke  de  Berri  lay  encamped  at  Melun.  What  took 
place  as  Napoleon  drew  near  this  mighty  host  is  told  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  as  follows  :  "The  glades  of  the  forest, 
presenting  the  appearance  of  a  deep  solitude,  were  full  in 
view  of  the  royal  army.  At  length  the  galloping  of  horse 
was  heard,  and  an  open  carriage  approached,  surrounded 
by  a  few  hussars,  and  drawn  by  four  horses.  It  came  on 
at  full  speed,  and  Napoleon,  jumping  from  his  vehicle, 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  ranks  that  had  been  sent  to  op- 
pose him.  There  was  a  general  shout  of  '  Vive  Napo- 
leon !  '  The  last  army  of  the  Bourbons  passed  from  their 
side,  and  there  existed  no  farther  obstruction  between 
Napoleon  and  the  capital." 

XAI'OI.KOX    AT    MKLUX. 

SAKAH   RKHHCCA   BARNES. 

In  all  thy  long  career  of  pride,  of  glory,  and  of  power. 
Of  triumph  and  of  victory — oh,  name  thy  proudest  hour! 
That  hour  which  o'er  thy  future   course   the  rosiest  prom- 
ise threw. 
Which  from  the  past  no  omen  ill  or  inauspicious  drew. 

Was  it  when  on  red  Lodi's  field,  unshrinking,  undismayed, 
Defying  death  and  dangers,  thou  that  pa>s  of  peril  made? 
Or  when,  her  ancient  glory  dim.  her  winged  lion  low, 
Inglorious  Venice  shrank  a'rha>t  and  fell  without  a  blow  ' 


404  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Queen  of  the  Adriatic  ! — thou  still  lingerest  round  the 
heart, 

Awakening  dreams  of  other  days,  unworthy  as  thou  art  ; 

Romance  hath  cast  her  spell  o'er  thee  in  gorgeous  memo- 
ries dyed, 

And  the  hour  that  saw  thee  in  the  dust  was  not  an  hour 
of  pride. 

Was  it  when  like  a  "  flaxen  band,"  proud  Austria's  power 

was  rent, 
And  o'er  her  flying  myriads  thou   thy  glance  of  triumph 

sent  ? 

When  from  her  ancient  capital  abandoned  to  thy  power, 
Thy  shouts  of   victory  went   up — was  that   thy  proudest 

hour  ? 

Was  it  when  Russia's  giant  force  in  terror  and  dismay, 
Upon  the  field  of  Austerlitz  before  thee  prostrate  lay  ? 
That  "  Battle  of  the  Emperors,"  with  glorious  memories 

rife, 
So  cherished  mid  each  after-scene  of  thy  eventful  life  ? 

Or  when  at  thy  sublimest  height  of  conquest  and  renown, 
Was  placed  upon  thy  laurelled   brow  the  Lombard's  iron 

crown  ? 

The  iron  crown  of  Charlemagne — a  symbol  of  the  power 
That   countless  thousands  humbly  owned  ;   was  that  thy 

proudest  hour  ? 

Perchance  upon  thine   inmost   soul   prophetic  whisperings 

came, 

Of  the  insecurity  of  thrones,  the  heartlessness  of  fame. 
Perchance  upon  thy  spirit  then  dark  visions  floated  past, 
To    mar   the   triumph   of   that    hour,   its    radiant  promise 

blast. 


NAPOLEON  AT  MELUN.  405 

If  so,  none  knew:  unwise  it  were  to  waken  dark  distrust  ; 
But   lo !     upon    the    wildered    eye    what  bridal   pageants 

burst  ! 

Imperial  Hapsburgh  !  fated  still  to  feel  thine  iron  thrall, 
Thou  hero  of  an  hundred  fights,  and  victor  in  them  all ! 
So  reckless  of  another's  claim,  by  mad  ambition  led, 
Where   slept   the    thunder?  why    forbore    the    bolt    that 

should  have  sped 
To  rive  that  red  right  hand,  before  the  altar  pledged   to 

tliee, 
Imperial  victim  !  offered  up  mid  mirth  and  revelry  ? 

But  why,  when  every  breath  bespeaks  the   triumph  hour 

of  mirth, 
Why  is  it  mid  this  festal  scene  that  darker  thoughts  have 

birth? 
What  curse  is  brooding  in  the  air?  What  shadow  passing 

by? 
What  demon  is  abroad  to  mar  this  hour's  festivity  ? 

There  's   restlessness  within   that   eye,   repress  it  as  thou 

wilt  ; 

A  deepening  hectic  on  that  cheek,  it  is  the  flush  of  guilt  ! 
For  memory  of  that  injured  one  is  with  thee  even  now. 
And  crime  is  deepening  at  thy  heart  and  darkening  o'er 

thy  brow. 

A  fearful  vision,  undefined,  thy  very  spirit  stirs, 

That  doom  is  on  thee,  long  foretold,  thy  star  declines  with 

hers! 
"Spoilt   child   of    fortune!"    -fated    still,  ami    formed    to 

move  the  heart  ; 
So  glorious  as  thou  might'st  have  been  !   so  guilt}'  as  thou 

art  ! 


405  A    METRICAL  HISTOR\7  OF  NAPOLEON. 

A  change  was  wrought — a  mighty  change  ;  of  all  thy  con- 
quests vast, 

The  memory  alone  remained,  thy  day  of  empire  past. 

An  exile  in  a  lonely  isle,  yet  still  unshrinking  shone 

That  spirit  which  no  change  could  quell,  that  greatness 
all  thine  own. 

Another  change  :   thy   footsteps  press  once  more  the  soil 

of  France, 
And  despots  madden  at  the  thought,  and   bid  their  hosts 

advance. 
Alone  thou    comest  ;   hostile    bands    meet  thy   unstartled 

view, 
The   soldier's   eye   has    caught    thy    form  !    The    soldier's 

heart  is  true  ! 

At  once  from  countless  numbers  poured,  a  deafening  shout 

arose, 
And  ranks  on  ranks  prolonged  the  sound  ;   thy  foes  !   where 

are  thy   foes  ? 
Like  wreath  of  morning  mist  before  the  sun's  triumphant 

ray, 
The  Bourbon  saw  his  power  decline,  his  legions  pass  away  ! 

And  thou-  — not  in  thy  proudest  day  of  triumph  and  re- 
nown, 

When  kings  became  thy  suppliants,  and  thanked  thee  for 
a  crown  ! 

When  earth  to  her  remotest  bounds  thine  influence  felt 
and  owned, 

And  thou  thy  mandates  issued  forth  in  regal  splendour 
throned — 

Not  then  !  not  then  thine  hour  of  pride,  though  millions 
owned  thv  swav  ; 


NAPOLEON  AT  MEI.U.V.  407 

There  waited  on  thy  destiny  a  more  triumphant  day. 
That  day  on   which  a   fugitive,  where  all  was  once  thine 

own, 
A    nation's    voice    with    one    accord    recalled    thee    to    a 

throne  ! 


BONAPARTE    IN   PARIS. 

FROM  Melun  to  Paris  the  journey  was  as  one  grand  holi- 
day parade.  The  Emperor  was  received  at  the  capital 
with  a  welcome  and  an  enthusiasm  undescribable.  Borne 
aloft,  literally,  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  frantic  admirers, 
he  entered  the  Tuileries  as  no  ruler  had  ever  entered  that 
palace.  The  Bourbons  had  scarcely  gotten  their  house 
settled  ere  they  were  compelled  to  flee  in  order  to  make 
room  for  the  man  so  loudly  called  for  by  the  army  and 
the  people.  In  twenty  days  Napoleon  had  travelled  seven 
hundred  miles  through  the  very  heart  of  France,  and  at 
no  place,  from  the  coast  to  the  gates  of  Paris,  had  he  met 
with  any  but  the  most  emphatic  and  pronounced  marks 
of  love  and  admiration.  The  old  soldiers,  certainly,  were 
honest  in  their  protestations  of  fidelity,  and  the  people,  at 
least,  thought  they  were  expressing  their  true  sentiments. 
The  army  proved  its  devotion  by  dying  for  its  beloved 
chief ;  the  people  proved  theirs  by  welcoming  the  Allies 
and  the  Bourbons  back  to  Paris  with  loud  acclaim  and  with 
open  arms,  while  Napoleon,  beaten  and  humiliated,  was 
on  his  way  to  St.  Helena. 

The  following  poem,  although  written  by  an  English- 
man, gives  a  vivid,  an  amusing,  and  an  historical  descrip- 
tion of  how  the  news  of  Napoleon's  escape  from  Elba 
was  received  in  London  and  in  Paris  ;  how  the  journey 

408 


BONAPARTE   IN  PARIS.  409 

from  the  coast  to  the  capital  was  made,  and  ho\v  the 
Emperor  was  received  at  the  Tuileries.  Pindar's  style  of 
writing  is  too  well  known  to  the  English  reader  to  need 
an  introduction.  He  spares  neither  friend  nor  foe  in  get- 
ting at  the  point  he  wishes  to  make,  and  yet,  beneath  the 
levity  and  the  satire,  there  is  generally  found  some  object 
worth\-  of  thought  and  reflection  ;  some  good  advice, 
which,  if  followed,  would  make  mankind  better. 

BONAPARTE    IN    PARIS !    OR    THE    FLIGHT    OF    THE 
BOURBONS  ! 

A  Poem,  by  Peter  Pindar,  Esq. 

I>r.  JOHX  WOLCOT. 

Napoleon,  lo  !  has  broke  his  chain, 
And  boldly  stalks  in  France  again, 
\Yith  lofty  crest  he  breathes  defiance, 
A  furious  tiger,  joined  by  Lyons  ! 

Louis,  thy  fate  is  hard,  I  own, 
What  plagues  assail  thy  short-liv'd  throne  ! 
\Yorse  ne'er  tormented  king,  I  doubt. 
Than  Bonaparte  and  the  gout. 

Does  then  a  !<>\v-born  Corsican 

Make  Bourbon's  Heir  his  warming-pan  : 

A  little  while  his  place  to  fill. 

Till  he  resumes  it  at  his  will  ; 

Shall  he  a  Royal  Sov'reign  knock 
About,  just  like  a  shuttle-cock? 
One  blow  sends  him,  full  drive,  to  France, 
The  next  to  Eni>luml  m;ikes  him  dance. 


4IO  A    METRICAL    HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Was  it  for  this,  in  splendid  show, 

Our  R 1  went,  some  time  ago, 

With  footmen,  pages,  gallant  forces, 
State  carriage,  and  cream-colour'd  horses  ; 

To  bring  him  safe  to  London,  where 
Great  Louis  own'd  his  princely  care, 
Vow'd  he  through  life  would  ne'er  forget 
How  great  to  Britain  was  his  debt  ; — 

As  he,  to  make  no  longer  stay,  meant, 
He  gave  an  order,  too,  for  payment, 
(Our  pious  Regent's  pride  and  boast), 
The  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ! 

For  this,  such  mobbing  and  huzzaing, 
Such  beauty,  rank,  and  joy  displaying  ? 
For  this,  such  feasting  and  parading, 
Such  shouting  and  such  white-cockacling? 

For  this,  did  vessels  of  the  line, 

Give  battle  on  the  Serpentine? 

For  this,  did  crackers,  squibs,  and  rockets, 

Amuse  our  eyes  and  fleece  our  pockets? 

For  this,  did  Sadler  mount  the  sky, 
And  temples  lift  their  heads  on  high  ' 
For  this,  were  fairs  and  revels  had, 
To  make  the  people  drunk  and  mad  ' 

For  this, — but  I  had  best  pursue 
My  tale,  so  wonderful  and  new, 
Form'd  to  perpetuate  my  rhymes 
In  British  minds,  to  latest  times. 


BONAPARTE  IN  PARIS,  411 

"  Begone  !  "  said  I,  the  other  day, 
Unto  the  newsman, — "  get  away — 
Xo  paper  will  I  take, — depart  ! 
I  'm  weary, — I  am  sick  at  heart. 

"  The  Corn-Bill,  it  is  sure  will  pass, 
Whoever  doubts  it  is  an  ass  ; 
Away  !    I  will  not  read  their  speeches, 
Of  which,  the  substance,  only  teaches — 


"And,  as  to  foreign  politics, 
To  kingly  craft  and  courtly  tricks  ; 
To  that  great  Congress,  where  of  late, 
Monarchs  and  ministers  of  state, 

"  With  potent  emperors  assembl'd, 
At  whose  bare  nod  whole  kingdoms  trembl'd. 
Danc'd  waltzes,  din'd,  and  talk'd  the  news, 
And  figur'd,  too,  at  grand  reviews, 

"  I  low  each  pursues  his  bold  design. 

Is  his  concern  and  none  of  mine  ; 

I  leave  them  to  their  strife  and  scrambles, 

And  all  their  polished  courtly  gambols. 

"  We  know,  the  work  of  peace  to  crown. 
How  they  together  sat  them  down  ; 
And  (droll  comparison  to  make). 
All  Europe,  like  a  large  twelfth  cake, 

"  At  these  grand  Carvers'  mercy  laid. 
Was  on  the  ample  board  display'd, 
To  be  cut  up  there  and  divided, 
lust  as  these  miirhtv  men  decided. 


412  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  To  work  they  went,  at  nothing  stopping  ; 
Good  lord  !  what  cutting  and  what  chopping 
So  greedy  all,  that,  in  the  pother, 
They  cut  the  fingers  of  each  other. 

"  Disputes  their  r 1  tempers  nettle  ; — 

They  find  it  difficult  to  settle 

A  point,  that  I  confess  was  nice, — 

Which  ought  to  have  the  largest  slice  ? 

"  '  Coz,  you  have  got  the  greatest  share, 
Which  I  contend  is  quite  unfair  ; 
Cut  off  a  piece  and  give  it  me.' 
'  No  ;   I  to  that  cannot  agree  : 

"  '  But,  hark'ee  !  my  imperial  brother. 
Here  is  a  share  own'd  by  another  ; 
He  is  a  poor  defenceless  elf, — 
I  know  he  cannot  help  himself  ; 

"  '  I  '11  give  you  his  with  all  my  heart  ; 
Then  you  will  have  an  equal  part. 
Agreed  ! '  thus  they  hush  up  the  broil, 
And  socially  divide  the  spoil. 

"  But  now  the  glorious  work  is  done, 
By  wisdom  so  profound  begun  ; 
The  compact  's  made  secure  and  fast, 
That  aees  clestin'd  is  to  last : 


"  In  time  of  peace  ?  \  is  more,  I  swear. 
Than  mortal  patienee  well  can  bear  ! 
Since  then  abroad  the  Congress-fiat 
Has  settled  ev'rything  so  quiet, 


BONAPARTE   7/V   PARIS.  415 

"  And  since,  at  home  the  Corn-Bill,  fast, 
Against  the  nation's  voice,  is  past, 
Let  those  inquire  the  news  who  will, 
My  curiosity  is  still. "- 

Twang  went  the  horn  !  "Confound  that  noise  !  " 
I  cried,  in  pet — "  these  plaguy  boys 
Are  at  some  tricks  to  sell  their  papers, 
Their  blasts  have  given  me  the  vapours  !  " 

But  all  my  senses  soon  were  stranded 
At  hearing,  "  Buonaparte  landed  !  " 
"  Landed  in  France  !  "  so  ran  the  strain, 
And  "  \Yith  eleven  hundred  men." 

"  Ho,  post !  "  "  Who  calls  !  "  "  This  way."    "  I  'm 

coming !  " 

The  public  surely  he  is  humming, 
Said  I,  ''  A  paper — what  's  the  price  ?  " 
"  A  shilling."   "  Why  that  's  payment  twice." 

"  As  cheap  as  dirt,  your  honour,  quite  ; 
They  Ve  sold  for  half-a-crown  to-night." 
"  But  is  the  news  authentic,  friend  ?  " 
"  (  )fishul,  sir,  you  may  depend  — 

"  The  Currier,  third  edition."     "  So  ! 
\\"ell,  take  your  money,  boy,  and  go." 
Now  for  the  news — by  what  strange  blunder 
Has  he  escaped  his  bounds  I  wonder. 

There's  some  strange  mystery  in  this  ; 
Let  's  see — "  Lscape."     -Oh,  here  it  is. 
Xow,  curiosity  to  quench, 
"  Kscape-    Kscapc  from  tin-  King's  Bench!" 


414  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

1) — n  the  King's  Bench — I  'm  out  of  patience, 
Stay,  here  I  see  the  proclamations — 
Pronounced  a  rebel,  traitor — well, 
What  this  will  end  in,  who  can  tell? 


Who  can  describe  the  consternation, 
Alternate  grief  and  trepidation, 
Emotions  far  too  strong  to  hide, 
Which  spread  around  on  cv'ry  side  ? 

But  chief  at  Paris  now  is  seen 
Th'  inquiring  look,  th'  astonish'd  mien  ; 
The  news,  just  like  some  potent  charm. 
In  ev'ry  quarter  spreads  alarm. 

John  Bull  and  family,  to  France 
Who  've  had  a  most  delightful  dance, 
Are  struck  with  panic,  ev'ry  one, 
And  back  to  England,  fain  would  run. 

Oh,  what  a  crowd  of  rueful  faces ! 
I  really  pity  their  sad  cases, 
So  full  of  gloomy  apprehension. 
And  fears  beyond  what  I  can  mention. 

"  Boney  broke  loose  !  "  is  all  the  cry, 
"  To  Calais  let  us  instant  fly." 
For  carriages  they  are  all  mad, 
And  those  can  scarcely  now  be  had. 

Away  they  scamper,  high  and  low. 
Like  children  from  a  bugabo  ; 
Run,  Johnny,  run,  should  Boney  meet  you, 
The  cruel  monster  '11  kill  and  eat  you  ! 


BOXAPARTE   IN   PA  A' IS.  415 

"  Honey  is  coming!     Oh,  tlic  devil! 
Whoever  dreamt  of  such  an  evil. 
They  say — I  shall  expire  with  fright, — 
He  will  be  here  to-morrow  night. 

"  He  '11  seize,  and  lock  us  up,  I  vow 
I  think  I  see  his  John  d'Armes  now 
Coming  to  drive  us  and  our  friends, 
Like  sheep,  before  them,  into  pens. 

"  Come,  let  us  pack  up,  and  away, 
Whatever  be  the  cost,  I  '11  pay, 
Buy  my  escape,  that  I  am  fixton, 
E'en  should  I  sell  my  house  at  Brixton." 

Such  was  John  Bull's  sad  situation, 
By  peril  caught  in  Gallia's  nation, 
Led  thither  by  that  gen'ral  passion, 
Whose  reign  is  like  the  doe-star's — fashion  ! 


But  where  's  the  pen  that  can  reveal. 

What,  L s,  thou  didst  think  and  feel, 

When  this  dire  information  first 
A  thunderbolt  upon  thee  burst. 

The  day  had  past,  which  was,  I  hear, 
A  levee-day,  when  bishop,  peer, 
And  commoner,  their  homage  pay 
To  him  who  holds  the  regal  s\vav. 


The  day  had  past,  as  has  been  said  ; 
The  <raudv  retinue  had  fled  ; 


416  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  mon— h  now  retirement  sought, 
To  give  an  hour  to  sober  thought. 


"  Mon  Dieu  !  "   said  he,  "  to  be  a  king 
Is  very  much  fatiguing  thing! 
So  much  to  sign,  so  much  to  hear, — 
'T  is  too  much  for  my  age  to  bear. 

"  Now  ministers  in  council  chatter  ; 

Now  grand  homme  tell  d d  lie  and  flatter  : 

Now  dis  ;  now  dat  ;  well,  I  must  still 
Endure  it  all  for  ma  famille." 

Scarce  had  he  spoke  these  words,  when,  lo  ! 
His  minister's  announc'd  below  ; 
Soon  usher'd  up, — behold  him  stand, 
With  his  despatches  in  his  hand  : 

"  O  sire  !  "  he  cried,  as  pale  as  death, 
Then  stopp'd  awhile  to  take  some  breath, 
"  I  come,  your  Majeste,  to  tell 
About  dis  terrible  nouvelle!  " 

"  Xouvelle  ?  some  news?"     The  monarch  cried, 
His  ample  mouth  all  gaping  wide, 
''  What  news,  my  Lord,  tell  me, — dites  m<>i  ?  " 
"  Ce  Bonaparte — Helas!    mon  Roi  !  " 

"  Ha,  Bonaparte!"  great  L s  said, — 

His  eyes  seem'd  starting  from  his  head  ; 
One  would  have  thought,  to  mark  his  stare, 
The  Corsican  himself  was  there.-. 

Strange  that  a  name  could  thus  control. 
And  petrify  a  monarch's  soul  : 


BONAPARTE   AV  PARIS.  417 

Whose  name,  beside  ?     An  exile's,  sent, 
Disgrac'd,  to  dwell  in  banishment, 

And  dwindle  out  life's  transient  hour, 
Remote  from  courts  and  shorn  of  power ; 
Yet  did  this  name  of  Bonaparte 
Strike  terror  to  a  Bourbon's  heart. 

The  K g,  his  shock  somewhat  abated, 

Occasion'd  by  a  sound  so  hated, 
Cried,  "  He  bien  ?  Dites  moi — tell  me, 
Ce  coquin — rascal — where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Begar,  mon  Roi,  he  land  in  France, 
And  make  to  Paris,  quick  advance  :  " 
"  He  land  in  France?  "     "  En  verite." 
"  Diable  !   How  he  get  away 

"  From  Elba,  I  much  vish  to  know, 
Vere  he  vas  sent  some  time  ago 
By  Fred'ric,  Francis,  Alexander, 
And  all  de  oder  great  Commander?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sire, — Je  no  scais  pas; 
But  he  land  here — dat  true — I  Idas  ! 
And  make  terrible  proclamation 
To  all  de  people  in  de  nation  ; 

"  Dere  he  abuse  your  Majeste, 
Say  you  no  honnetc — will  no  pay 
L'argent — de  monev — vou  agree 

O  *  .  O 

To  give  him  and  his  family. 

"  So  he  come  here  to  make  de  war 
In  France,  and  pay  himself,  begar; 


418  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  say  vos  princes  be  lazy  dog, 
De  C-ng — ss,  too,  be  all  clam  rogue, 

"  Who  call  him  tief ;  and  den,  for  pelf, 
Dey  all  go  and  turn  tief  demself, 
And,  for  deir  own  accommodation, 
Rob,  cheat,  and  plunder  oder  nation." 

I  will  not  pause  here  to  relate 
What  great  resources  of  the  state 
On  this  occasion  were  employ'd, 
When  bold  invasion  fierce  annoy'd, 

Or  tell  how  Parliament  assembled, 
Where  loyalty,  most  undissembled, 
Inspired  the  members  every  one — 
Where  much  was  talk'd,  and  nothing  done. 

Could  speeches  kill,  full  well  we  know 

They  had  slain  Boney  long  ago. 

I  sing  not  of  the  princely  train 

Who  march'd  out,  then  march'd  back  again. 

I  sing  not  of  brave  Marshal  Ncy, 
The  Bourbons'  last  remaining  stay, 
Who  went  th'  invader  to  attack, 
Defeat,  destroy,  or  drive  him  back, 

But  scorn'd  behaviour  so  uncivil  :— 
While,  rapid  as  the  very  devil, 
To  Paris,  Bonaparte  inclin'd  ; 
Ney,  most  politely,  march'd  behind. 

1  sing  not  of  the  Melun-force, 

So  sure  to  check  the  Emperor's  course  ; 


BONAPAKTE   AV  PARIS.  419 

But  which,  as  had  done  all  the  others, 
Beheld  his  troops  and  hailed  them  brothers. 

The  fact  by  none  is  now  denied, 
That  Bonaparte  's  ta'en  a  ride — 
A  sort  of  pleasurable  excursion, 
As  it  would  seem,  for  mere  diversion — 

To  Paris,  whence,  in  sad  affright, 
Poor  hapless  Louis  wing'd  his  flight  ; 
While  nour  Napoleon,  at  his  ease, 
Is  seated  in  the  Tuileries. 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS. 

THE  advice  given  by  Beranger  to  Napoleon,  upon  his 
return  from  Elba,  coincided  exactly  with  the  Emperor's 
wishes  and  intentions.  He  sought  only  the  good  of 
France  and  that  of  his  subjects.  He  no  longer  desired 
war,  and  he  endeavoured  in  every  possible  way  to  avoid 
it.  Immediately  upon  his  arrival  at  the  Tuileries,  he  noti- 
fied the  sovereigns  of  Europe  of  his  resumption  of  power, 
and  declared  his  willingness  to  accept  and  abide  by  the 
terms  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris.  The  only  reply  he  received 
was  a  decree  posting  him  as  an  outlaw,  and  granting  per- 
mission, to  anyone  who  chose  to  do  so,  to  shoot  him  at 
pleasure.  Had  Napoleon  been  supported  at  this  time 
by  a  united  France,  and  with  the  same  spirit  and  enthu- 
siasm which  made  him  First  Consul  and  then  Emperor, 
war  might  have  been  avoided.  Had  he  acted  towards 
Louis  XVIII.  and  the  Bourbon  family  in  the  manner 
that  the  Allies  and  the  Bourbons  acted  towards  him,  he 
would  have  seized  the  King  and  held  him  as  a  hostage 
until  peace  was  assured.  Instead  of  this  justifiable  course, 
he  allowed  the  King  to  depart  in  safety,  and  he  ordered 
the  release  of  the  Duke  d'Angouleme  after  he  had  been 
taken  prisoner  with  arms  in  his  hands  against  him.  Eng- 
land and  the  Allied  Sovereigns  would  accept  no  peace  at 
the  hands  of  Napoleon,  and  they  banded  themselves  to- 

420 


THE  HUNDRED  DA  VS.  42  I 

gather  by  the  most  solemn  oath,  and  swore  never  to  sheath 
the  sword  until  the  "  outlaw  "  was  again  driven  from  the 
throne  of  France.  The  world  in  arms  was  united  against 
one  man.  Into  the  "  Hundred  Days"  more  history  was 
crowded  than  in,  perhaps,  any  other  equal  period  of  time 
since  the  world  began.  Between  Elba  and  St.  Helena, 
from  one  prison  door  to  another,  a  might}-  empire  was 
won  and  lost. 

THE    HUNDRED    DAYS. 

JEAN  PIERRE  DE  BERANGER. 

[In  this  admirable  song,  full  of  sound  political  advice,  it 
is  the  Emperor  Napoleon  who  is  apostrophised,  under  the 
pleasant  disguise  of  Liz.] 

O  Liz,  who  reignest  by  the  grace 
Of  God,  who  makes  us  equal  all, 

Thy  matchless  beauty  holds  a  race 
Of  rivals  still  in  thrall. 

But  vast  as  may  thine  empire  be, 

Liz,  in  thy  lovers  Frenchmen  see  ; 

And  at  thy  faults  let  us  to  jest  be  free, 
For  thy  subjects'  sake  ! 

How  main'  belles,  and  princes,  too, 

Love  to  abuse  their  sovereign  strength  ! 
What  states,  what  lovers,  not  a  few, 

Come  to  despair  at  length  ! 
Dread  lest,  perchance,  revolt  some  day 
To  thy  boudoir  should  find  its  way  : 
Ah  !   never,  never,  Liz,  the  tyrant  play, 
For  tin*  subjects'  sake! 

By  too  much  coquetry  beguiled. 

Women  pursue  the  conqueror's  aim, 
Who  from  his  country  far  is  wiled, 

A  hundred  tribes  to  tame. 


422  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

A  terrible  coquette  he  seems  : 
Oh  !   follow  not  his  empty  dreams  ; 
Nor  cherish  further,  Liz,  thy  conquering  schemes, 
For  thy  subjects'  sake  ! 

Thanks  to  the  courtier's  zeal,  't  is  harder 

A  mighty  monarch  to  come  nigh 
Than  Beauty's  self,  who  has  to  guard  her 

Some  ever-jealous  eye. 
But  to  thy  couch,  that  peaceful  throne 
Where  Pleasure  her  decrees  make  known, 
Liz,  let  the  way  accessible  be  shown, 
For  thy  subjects'  sake  ! 

In  vain  a  king  would  have  us  know, 

That,  if  he  reign,  Heaven  wills  his  sway  ; 

As,  Liz,  to  Nature  thou  dost  owe 
The  charms  that  all  obey. 

Though  without  question  we  resign 

The  sceptre  to  such  hands  as  thine, 

Of  us  to  hold  it  thou  must  not  decline, 
For  thy  subjects'  sake  ! 

That  we  for  aye  thy  name  may  bless, 

On  these  plain  truths,  O  Liz,  reflecting, 
Strive  to  become  a  good  princess. 

Our  liberties  respecting  ! 

Wreathe  round  thy  brow,  all  bright  and  fair, 
The  roses  that  Love  reaps,  and  there 
For  many  a  day  thy  crown  securely  wear, 
For  thy  subjects'  sake  ! 


HERZOU  VON  WEI.I.INGTON. 
N'ach  dem  Leben  von  Fleischmann,    London,  1814. 

NUrnberg  (no  date). 


BEFORE  WATERLOO. 

Ox  the  twelfth  of  June,  1815,  the  doors  of  the  Tuileries 
closed  behind  Napoleon,  never  to  open  for  him  again, 
lie  and  the  Grand  Army  of  France  were  about  to  enter 
upon  their  last  campaign,  a  campaign  which  was  fated  to 
be  a  short,  but  a  most  decisive  one.  With  less  than  three 
hundred  thousand  men,  the  difficult  problem  of  how  to 
beat  back  more  than  a  million  of  armed  foes,  pouring  in 
from  all  sides  upon  the  frontiers  of  his  country,  confronted 
the  Emperor.  Never  had  such  a  stupendous  task,  and  one 
fraught  with  so  much  weal  or  woe  to  the  nation,  stared 
him  in  the  face.  Where  now  was  that  brilliant  galaxy  of 
warriors  who,  in  the  days  when  victory  and  glory  followed 
his  departure,  always  rode  out  of  Paris  by  the  side  of 
their  chief?  Where  Eugene,  Murat,  Berthier,  Lannes, 
Bessieres,  Duroc,  Marmont,  Junot,  Oudinot.  Macdonald, 
and  Poniatowski  ?  None  with  him  in  this  his  last  desper- 
ate struggle. 

The  history  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  has  been  written 
more  times  and  by  more  writers  than  that  of  any  other 
battle  fought  since  the  beginning  of  time,  and  to-day  how 
the  result  attained  was  brought  about  is  still  an  unsettled 
question.  Was  the  battle  lost  to  France  because  the 
guide  shook  his  head  one  way  instead  of  the  other,  or 
was  it  because  of  the  sunken  road  which,  in  fiction,  broke 

423 


424  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

up  the  charge  of  Cuirassiers  of  the  Old  Guard  ?  Was  it 
because  Ney  refused  to  obey  orders,  or  was  it  because 
Grouchy  refused  to  disobey  ?  Was  it  because  the  great 
Emperor  slept  at  a  critical  moment,  or  was  it  because  Old 
Bliicher  did  not  sleep  at  all  ?  A  poet's  license  is  broad 
enough  to  accept  any,  or  all,  or  none  of  these  explanations 
and  the  answer  to  the  question  of  how  it  happened  will 
not  be  found  in  this  collection.  On  the  fifteenth  of  June 
Napoleon  was  at  Charleroi,  Wellington  at  Brussels,  and 
Bliichcr  at  Namur;  each  holding,  as  it  were,  the  corner  of 
a  triangle.  It  was  on  that  night  the  Duchess  of  Rich- 
mond gave  her  famous  ball  at  Brussels,  from  which 
Wellington  and  his  officers  were  rudely  torn  by  the  ne\vs 
that  Bonaparte  had  crossed  the  frontier  and  was  in  Bel- 
gium. In  the  early  morning  of  the  sixteenth,  Napoleon, 
supposing  Ney  to  be  in  possession  of  Quatre-Bras,  ad- 
vanced to  Ligny,  where  he  met  Bliicher  and  the  entire 
Prussian  army  on  their  way  to  join  the  English  army  at 
Waterloo.  All  clay  the  battle  went  on  and  when  night 
fell  Napoleon  was  everywhere  victorious,  and  the  Prus- 
sians were  in  full  retreat  toward  Wavre.  Had  Ney  actu- 
ally occupied  Quatre-Bras,  as  he  had  been  ordered  to  do, 
the  Prussian  army  could  not  have  escaped  complete 
destruction.  But  Wellington  had  possession  of  that  im- 
portant position,  and  the  advantage  gained  by  the  glorious 
victory  at  Ligny  was  lost.  Why  it  was  that  Ney  did  not 
take  possession  of  Quatre-Bras  on  the  night  of  the  fif- 

I  -•— •  O 

teenth,  as  he  easily  could  have  done,  is  still  a  mystery. 
lie  made  a  gallant  fight  on  the  sixteenth  to  gain  what 
he  had  lost,  but  in  vain.  Perhaps  it  was  at  Quatre-Bras 
that  Waterloo  was  rcallv  decided. 


BEFOKE  WATERLOO.  425 

BEFORE   WATERLOO. 

LORD  BYRON. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 

And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  wedding  bell  ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street  ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfm'd ; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 

But,  hark  !   that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm  !  arm  !   it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar  ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 

Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;   he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 

And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near. 

His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  strctch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 

And  roused  the  vengeance  bjood  alone  could  quell  : 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !   then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 

And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 


426  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 

The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  would  guess 

If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 

And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star  ; 

While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe  !  They  come  ! 

they  come  !  " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  "  rose. 

The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  : 

How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill !      But  with  the  breath  which  fills 

Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears  '. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 

Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass. 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 

Over  the  unreturning  brave — alas  ! 
Kre  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 

Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 

Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 


BEFORE   WATERLOO.  427 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse — friend,  foe — in  one  reel  burial  blent  ! 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

ON  the  seventeenth,  Napoleon  Joined  Ney  and  started 
in  pursuit  of  Wellington,  then  in  retreat  towards  Water- 
loo. Grouchy  had  been  instructed  to  follow  Blucher  and 
prevent  him  from  combining  with  the  English  army. 
Wellington  made  a  stand  at  Waterloo,  and  there  awaited 
the  coming  of  his  great  adversary.  The  night  of  the  sev- 
enteenth was  spent  by  Napoleon,  exposed  to  a  drenching 
rain,  in  preparing  for  the  ordeal  of  the  morrow.  If  Blucher 
could  be  kept  from  giving  aid  to  the  Iron  Duke,  the  re- 
sult of  the  impending  conflict  would  surely  be  a  victory 
for  the  French  cause.  Daybreak  found  the  rain  still  pour- 
ing down  in  torrents,  and  it  was  not  until  after  eleven 

C> 

o'clock  that  an  attack  was  ordered.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
delay  of  a  few  hours  that  brought  about  the  awful  defeat 
which  overtook  the  French  army. 

THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH. 

SIR  WAI.TKR  SCOTT. 

Night  and  morning  were  at  meeting 

Over  Waterloo  : 
Cocks  had  sung  their  earliest  greeting, 

Faint  and  low  they  crew, 
For  no  paly  beam  yet  shone 
On  the  heights  of  Mount  Saint  John  ; 
Tempest-clouds  prolonged  the  sway 
Of  timeless  darkness  over  day  ; 
428 


THE  DANCE   OF  DBA  TH.  429 

Whirlwind,  thunder-clap,  and  shower 
Marked  it  a  predestined  hour. 
Broad  and  frequent  through  the  night 
Flashed  the  sheets  of  levin-light  : 
Muskets,  glancing  lightnings  back, 
Showed  the  dreary  bivouac 

Where  the  soldier  lay, 
Chill  and  stiff,  and  drenched  with  rain, 
Wishing  dawn  of  morn  again, 

Though  death  should  come  with  day. 
'T  is  at  such  a  tide  and  hour. 
Wizard,  witch,  and  fiend  have  power, 
And  ghastly  forms  through  mist  and  shower, 

Gleam  on  the  gifted  ken  ; 
And  then  the  affrighted  prophet's  ear 
Drinks  whispers  strange  of  fate  and  fear, 
Presaging  death  and  ruin  near 

Among  the  sons  of  men; — 
Apart  from  Albyn's  war-array, 
'T  was  then  gray  Allan  sleepless  lay  ; 
Gray  Allan,  who  for  many  a  day, 

Had  followed  stout  and  stern, 
Where  through  battle's  rout  and  reel, 
Storm  of  shot  and  hedge  of  steel, 
Led  the  grandson  of  Lochicl, 

Valiant  Fassiefern. 

Through  steel  and  shot  he  leads  no  more, 
Low-laid  mid  friends'  and  foemcn's  gore, — 
Hut  long  his  native  lake's  wild  shore, 
And  Sunart  rough,  and  high  Ardgower, 

And  Morven  long  shall  tell, 
And  proud  Hen  Xevis  hear  with  a\ve. 
How,  upon  blood\-  Ouatre-Hras, 
Hrave  Cameron  heard  the  wild  hurra 

Of  conquest  as  he  fell. 


43O  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEOA'. 

Lone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  host, 

The  weary  sentinel  held  post, 

And  heard,  through  darkness  far  aloof, 

The  frequent  clang  of  courser's  hoof, 

Where  held  the  cloaked  patrol  their  course  ; 

And  spurred  'gainst  storm  and  swerving  horse 

But  there  are  sounds  in  Allan's  ear, 

Patrol  nor  sentinel  may  hear, 

And  sights  before  his  eye  aghast 

Invisible  to  them  have  passed, 

When  down  the  destined  plain 
'Twixt  Britain  and  the  bands  of  France, 
Wild  as  marsh-born  meteors'  glance, 
Strange  phantoms  wheeled  a  revel  dance. 

And  doomed  the  future  slain. 

Such  forms  were  seen,  such  sounds  were  heard, 
When  Scotland's  James  his  march  prepared 

For  Flodden's  fatal  plain  ; 
Such,  when  he  drew  his  ruthless  sword, 
As  Choosers  of  the  Slain,  adored 

The  yet  unchristen'd  Dane. 
An  indistinct  and  phantom  band, 
They  wheel'd  their  ring-dance  hand  in  hand. 

With  gestures  wild  and  dread  ; 
The  Seer,  who  watch'tl  them  ride  the  storm , 
Saw  through  their  faint  and  shadowy  form 

The  lightning's  flash  more  red  ; 
And  still  their  ghastly  roundelay 
Was  of  the  coming  battle-fray, 

And  of  the  destined  dead. 


Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  li'rhtnin<rs  glance. 


THE   DANCE    OF  DEATH.  431 

And  thunders  rattle  loud  ; 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Our  airy  feet, 

So  light  and  fleet, 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye 
That  sinks  its  head  when  whirlwinds  rave, 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave, 

As  each  wild  gust  goes  by  ; 
But  still  the  corn, 
At  dawn  of  morn, 

Our  fatal  steps  that  bore, 
At  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste 

Of  blackening  mud  and  gore. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud  ; 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance  ! 
Brave  sons  of  France, 

For  you  our  ring  makes  room  ; 
Make  space  full  wide 
For  martial  pride, 

For  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near, 
Proud  cuirassier ! 

Room  for  the  men  of  steel  ! 
Through  crest  and  plate 
The  broadsword's  weight 

Both  head  and  heart  shall  feel. 


432  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud  ; 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Sons  of  the  spear  ! 
You  feel  us  near 

In  many  a  ghastly  dream  ; 
With  fancy's  eye 
Our  forms  you  spy, 

And  hear  our  fatal  scream. 
With  clearer  sight 
Ere  falls  the  night, 

Just  when  to  weal  or  woe 
Your  disembodied  souls  take  flight 
On  trembling  wing — each  startled  sprite 

Our  choir  of  death  shall  know. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud  ; 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Burst,  ye  clouds,  in  tempest  showers, 
Redder  rain  shall  soon  be  ours—- 
Sec the  east  grows  wan 
Yield  we  place  to  sterner  game, 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  direr  flame 
Shall  the  welkin's  thunders  shame: 
Elemental  rage  is  tame- 
To  the  wrath  of  man. 


TJIE   DANCE    OF  DEATH.  433 

At  morn,  gray  Allan's  mates  with  awe 
Heard  of  the  vision'd  sights  he  saw, 

The  legend  heard  him  say  ; 
Hut  the  Seer's  gifted  eye  was  dim, 
Deafen'd  his  ear,  and  stark  his  limb. 

Kre  closed  that  bloody  day — 
He  sleeps  far  from  his  Highland  heath, — 
But  often  of  the  Dance  of  Death 

His  comrades  tell  the  tale, 
On  picquct-post,  when  ebbs  the  night, 
And  waning  watch-fires  glow  less  bright, 

And  dawn  is  glimmering  pale. 


WATERLOO. 

MANY  such  incidents  as  the  following  no  doubt  actually 
took  place  the  day  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  fought. 
It  was  a  glorious  day,  in  June  ;  a  Sabbath  day,  clear 
and  warm  after  the  heavy  rain  of  the  night,  which 
had  entirely  ceased  ere  the  roar  of  battle  began.  At 
home,  mothers  and  sisters  and  sweethearts  were  praying 
for  the  safety  of  those  dear  to  them  who  were  about  to 
engage  in  deadly  combat.  It  was  while  these  loved  ones 
were  engaged  in  their  devotions  at  church  that  the 
battle  commenced,  and  from  many  a  maiden's  heart,  in 
Kent  and  elsewhere,  went  out  a  fervent  petition  asking 
Divine  protection  for  the  one  dearer  to  her  than  life  ;  and 
many  a  noble  boy  fought  better  and  died  more  heroically 
that  awful  day,  knowing  that  such  a  woman  was  praying 
for  him. 

WATERLOO. 
DOUGLAS  UROOKK.  WHKK.LTOX  SI.AOKN. 

"  What  struck?" 

"  Half-past  ten  o'clock." 

As  over  his  saddle-bow  he  bent, 

He  thought  of  the  village  church  in  Kent, 

And  said,  "  She  '11  be  kneeling  soon  to  pray— 

Perhaps  for  me,  on  this  Sabbath-day." 

434 


WATERLOO.  435 

Ping!  ping! 

Hark  the  bullets  wing  ! 

Their  cuirassiers  sweep  across  the  plain. 

"  Charge  them,  our  Life  Guards  !  "  —They  turn  again  ; 

While  English  beauty  is  on  its  knees 

For  English  valour  across  the  seas. 

There  goes 

The  vanguard  of  the  foes  ! 

They  Ve  taken  the  wood  by  Hougoumont ! 

"  Coldstreams  and  Fusiliers  to  the  front !  " 

Taken  again,  lads  !  that 's  not  amiss  ; 

Your  sweethearts  at  home  will  boast  of  this. 

Pell-mell, 

Bullet,  shot,  and  shell 

Rain  on  our  infantry  thick  and  fast  ; 

Many  a  stout  heart  will  beat  its  last  ; 

Blue  eyes  will  moisten  many  a  day 

For  good  lives  lightly  given  away. 

Crash,  clash, 

Like  a  torrent's  dash, 

Lancer  and  cuirassier  leap  on  the  square  ! 

Scarcely  a  third  of  the  bayonets  there. 

Ve  who  would  look  on  old  England  again, 

Xo\v  must  ye  prove  yourselves  Englishmen. 

Stamp,  stamp, 

With  its  even  tramp, 

Rolls  uphill  the  invincible  Guard  : 

Falters  it  at  the  fiftieth  yard?' 

Weak,  worn,  and  oft  assaulted  the  foe. 

Vet  never  its  heart  misirave  it  so. 


43<->  •-'    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

On,  oil, 

And  the  fight  is  won  ! 

Shot-stricken  linesman  and  thrice-charged  Guard 

Glare  at  them  lion-like,  hungry  and  hard  ; 

His  waiting  is  done— his  hour  has  come; 

Pent-up  fierceness  drives  bayonets  home. 

On,  on, 

Life  Guard  and  Dragoon  ! 

An  English  charge  and  a  red  right  hand 

Will  bring  fair  years  to  your  fair  old  land. 

With  riven  corselet  and  shivered  lance, 

Is  reft  and  shivered  the  pride  of  France. 

Still,  still, 

In  the  moonlight  chill, 

A  dying  Dragoon  looks  up  to  a  friend  : 

"  Tell  her  I  did  my  part  to  the  end — 

Tell  her  I  died  as  an  Englishman  should — 

And  give  her — her  handkerchief — it  is  my  blood.' 

There  went, 

From  a  church  in  Kent, 

An  eager  and  anxious  prayer  to  God 

For  lovers,  brothers,  and  sons  abroad  : 

The  fairest  and  noblest  prayed  for  one — 

Neither  lover,  nor  brother,  nor  son. 

A  calm 

After  hymn  and  psalm  : 

The  preacher  in  silent  thought  is  bowed. 

Ere  he  gives  out  the  bidding  prayer  aloud. 

I  lark  !   what  can  that  long,  dull  booming  be, 

Swept  by  the  east  wind  across  the  sea.'' 


U'ATEKLOO.  437 

Boom,  boom, 

Like  the  voice  of  doom  ! 

The  preacher  has  fought,  and  knows  full  well 

The  message  that  booming  has  to  tell, 

And  gives  out  his  text :  "  Let  God  arise, 

And  he  shall  scatter  our  enemies." 

One  night 

In  two  memories  bright ; 

One  golden  hour  unwatched  at  a  ball, 

A  kerchief  taken  or  given  was  all. 

"  Off  to  the  war  to-morrow — good-by — 

I  '11  carry  it  with  me  until  I  die  !  ' 

He  is  dead  ! 

"  You  have  come,"  she  said, 

"  To  bring  me  tidings  of  him  I  loved  ? 

Your  face  has  told  me  your  tale — he  proved 

Worthy  the  name  I  did  not  know, 

The  man  that  I  thought  him  a  year  ago." 

"  He  cliecl 

With  stern  English  pride, 

But  lived  to  fight  the  great  battle  through  ; 

II  is  last  words  were  of  England  and  you  ; 
He  died  as  an  English  gentleman  should, 

And     sent    you-— your    handkerchief — rich   with   hi> 
blood." 

"  Ah  me  ! 

Life  is  sad,"  moaned  she, 

"  When  all  the  sun  in  its  sky  hath  flown  !  " 

And  "  One  loving  bosom  is  very  lone." 

And  "  (  )h,     if  I  might  lie  by  you 

In  v'our  soldier's  i/rave  at  \\  aterloo  !" 


NEY'S  CHARGE  AT  WATERLOO. 

SHORTLY  after  eleven  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of  the 
eighteenth  of  June,  the  work  of  slaughter  began.  It  was 
at  that  time  Napoleon  ordered  the  attack  upon  Hougou- 
mont,  which  was  intended  as  a  diversion  only,  but  which 
was  fated  to  become  a  most  important  factor  in  the  result 
of  the  battle.  Napoleon's  brother  Jerome  undertook  to 
carry  out  this  part  of  the  Emperor's  plan,  but  he  signally 
failed,  not  through  any  lack  of  bravery  on  his  part,  or  on 
that  of  his  soldiers,  but  wholly  through  an  apparent  un- 
justifiable ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  task  assigned 
him.  It  was  not  until  after  one  o'clock  that  the  first 
attack  on  the  centre  of  the  English  line  was  ordered. 
D'Erlon,  who  had  charge  of  this  movement,  was  repulsed 
and  driven  back  with  fearful  loss.  While  the  French 
troops  were  re-forming,  and  preparations  were  being  made 
to  again  test  the  strength  of  Wellington's  line,  Bulow's 
corps  of  the  Prussian  army  appeared  on  the  field,  and 
Napoleon  was  compelled  to  withdraw  a  part  of  his  force 
from  the  advance  about  to  be  made,  in  order  to  meet  this 
new  foe.  In  this  undertaking  Napoleon  assumed  personal 
command,  leaving  Ney  in  charge  of  the  movement  against 
the  English  line.  Ney  determined  to  make  the  attack 
with  cavalry,  and  for  two  long  hours  his  iron  horsemen 


NEY. 
From  an  engraving  by  J.  Kennerly. 

Place  and  date  of  publication  unknown 


NEY'S   CHARGE  AT    WATERLOO.  439 

hurled  themselves  against  that  line,  which  would  neither 
bend  nor  break.  By  reason  of  sheer  exhaustion  on  the 
part  of  the  French  cuirassiers  this  assault  also  failed. 
Napoleon  having,  as  he  supposed,  effectually  beaten  the 
Prussians,  returned  to  the  front,  where  Ney  made  known 
to  him  the  true  condition  of  affairs.  The  Imperial  Guard, 
or  rather  what  remained  of  it,  was  the  only  resource  left. 
Upon  this  hitherto  invincible  band  of  warriors  depended 
the  fate  of  France.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock,  in  the 
evening  of  that  awful  day,  when  Napoleon  handed  over 
to  Ney  all  he  had — the  remnant  of  his  Guard.  What 
followed  is  told  in  the  following  verses. 

NEY'S  CHARGE  AT  WATERLOO. 

ANON. 

T  was  the  Corsican's  last  struggle — dark   and   lurid   rose 

the  morn 
Where,  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  light  waved  thetasselled 

corn, 
And  where  proud  England's  chivalry,  fresh  from  the  giddy 

dance. 
Went  forth  to  bide,  in  war's  red  title,  the  Grand  Army  of 

France. 
There  stood  the  rival  nations,  there  each  ensign  fluttered 

high, 

Nodding  its  stern  defiance  as  it  streamed  toward  the  sky. 
There  the  fanner  boys  of  Yorkshire,  the  conscript  from 

the  Seine, 

The  veteran  from  the  Indies,  and  from  Moscow's  icy  plain. 
The  shepherd  of  the  Highlands,  and  Naples'  gondoliers, 
The  high  noblesse  of  England,  the  Empire's  haughty  peers, 


440  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

All,  all  went  forth  that  awful  morn  with  hearts  of  bound- 
ing pride, — 

Went  forth,  as  to  a  bridal, — to  meet  Death  as  a  bride. 

Hark  !  to  the  shrieking  trumpet !  hark  !  to  the  rolling  drum  ! 

Hark!  how  the  crashing  cannon-shot  proclaim  the  battle 
storm  ! 

Be  merry,  Death  !  for  never  yet,  in  one  short  summer 
morn, 

Hast  thou  reapeu  a  bloodier  harvest  than  in  yonder 
trampled  corn. 

The  day  wore  on — where  in  mad  charge  the  fiery  cuiras- 
siers 

Still  spurred  against  the  bayonets  of  the  stout  English 
squares, 

The  smoke  had  settled  dark  and  gray  ;  and  in  that  battle 
cloud 

Both  armies  were  enveloped,  as  in  some  Titanic  shroud. 

'T  was  then  an  aide  rode  headlong  to  where  Napoleon 
stood  : 

"  Sire  !  Sire!  "  he  cried,  "  the  Prussians  !  the}'  're  debouch- 
ing from  the  wood." 

Napoleon  turned — at  those  dread  words  he  felt  the  Km- 
pire  grand 

Sinking  like  withering  ashes  from  beneath  his  nerveless 
hand. 

"  Send  for  the  Prince  of  Moskwa  !  hasten  my  Guard's 
advance  ! 

On  him  and  them  alone  must  rest  the  destiny  of  France." 

The  marshal  came — he  cast  a  glance  of  anguish  not  of  fear, 

To  where  the  Prussians'  sullen  gun  sent  warnings  to  his 
ear. 

'•  1  am  here,"  he  said,  "  my  chieftain  ;  I  have  erred,  but 
1  am  true-  ; 

I  am  here  to  die,  as  I  have  lived,  for  glory,  France,  and 
vou . 


NEY'S   CIIARGI:    AT    U'ATKKl.OO.  441 

"  Ney  !  "  said  the   Emperor,   "  dear  Ney  !  tried   friend   in 

brighter  days, 
Thy  brother's  star  is  dull  and  dim;   't  is   fading  from  hi^ 

gaze. 
The    men    he    made    immortal    have    left    him.    one    by 

one  ; 
The  princes,  kings,  and  marshals— aye,  and  brothers — all 

are  gone. 
Ney!  bravest  of  the  brave  !  the  Empire  shivers!    must  it 

fall  ? 
Go,  lead  the  Guards  !  the  last  great  charge  must  save  or 

ruin  all. 

Strike  once  again  for  glory — safety — liberty,  dear  Ney, 
The  world's  vast  fate  hangs  quivering  on  thy  valiant  arm 

to-day  !  " 
The  bearskins  of  the  Grenadiers  gleam   grimly   through 

the  corn  ; 
No  roll  of  drum,  no  trumpet  tone,  is  heard  to  cheer  them 

on  ; 
Through  blue  and  livid  sheets  of  flame  Ney  leads  them 

on  they  go, 
Till  he  hurls  them,  as  an  avalanche,  against  the  shrinking 

foe. 
Still  on  !  two  solid  ranks  before  their  charge  arc  scattered 

wide, 
And  yet  those  foes,  like  hydras'  heads,  spring  up  on  every 

side  ; 
Volcanic  bursts  of  red-hot  rain  are  vain  to  make  them 

fly 

The\'   cannot   on      they  will   not    turn      so,  tarry   there   to 

die. 
They  are  falling,  they  are  falling,  but  each  -oldier  only 

sees 
His  loved  tricolour  still  shivering,  torn,  deliant  in  the 

bree/e  ; 


442  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  though  on  front,  flank,  rear    is  shrieked  the  Saxons' 

mad  hurrah, 
Each   bleeding     square  dies  proudly    there,  with  "  Vive 

1'Empereur !  " 

But  fainter — fainter  are  the  cries,  and  fewer  are  the  men  ; 
The  bearskins  of  the  Grenadiers  are  low  upon  the  plain. 
'T  is  sunset ;     o'er   red   Waterloo  the  shroud  of  night  is 

thrown  ; 
Napoleon  !  thy  Guard  is  dead  !  a  broken  toy  thy  crown  ! 


AN   EPISODE  OF    WATERLOO. 

THE  defeat  of  the  Imperial  Guard  at  Waterloo  was  a 
startling  revelation  to  the  rest  of  the  French  army.  Never 
before  in  its  history  had  its  stern  warriors  been  known  to 
move  on  a  field  of  battle,  except  in  the  path  of  victory.  If 
tradition  be  true  they  now  accepted  annihilation  rather  than 
acknowledge  themselves  conquered.  The  fidelity  of  the 
soldiers  of  the  Grand  Army  towards  their  Emperor  con- 
tinued to  the  end.  To  die  for  him,  rather  than  to  live  for 
another,  was  their  choice.  Their  devotion  was  genuine, 
and  it  ceased  only  when  death  summoned  them  from  his 
side.  Ney  led  the  Guard  in  its  last  charge,  and  when 
horse  after  horse  was  shot  under  him,  he  still  led  these 
heroes,  on  foot,  sword  in  hand.  "  Come,  gentlemen,  fol- 
low me,  and  see  how  a  marshal  of  France  can  die."  was 
an  expression  worth}-  the  man  ;  but  how  much  nobler 
had  it  not  been  supplemented  by  the-  words.  "HI  'm  not 
shot  here,  I  '11  be  hanged  when  I  return  to  Paris."  It  was 
policy  for  him  to  die  on  the  field  of  battle  ;  to  the  soldiers, 
death  was  but  the  fulfilment  on  their  part  of  the  contract 
made  with  the  Emperor. 

The  story  told  below  is  founded  on  an  incident  said   to 
have   actually  occurred   at   Waterloo.      Had    the   generals 

443 


444  A   METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON'. 

and  marshals  of  Napoleon  been  made  of  the  same  stuff 
this  private  soldier  was,  Waterloo  would  never  have  been 
fought. 

AN  EPISODE  OF   WATERLOO. 

FRANCIS  S.  SALTUS. 

The  battle  was  waning ;  the  sun  had  set 

Thro'  the  clouds  of  smoke  on  the  shrieking  plain, 

And  the  scattered  bodies  of  men  lay  wet 

In  great  pools  of  blood  and  great  pools  of  rain. 

Then  thunders  of  cannon  still  rent  the  air, 
And  the  crimson  field  had  been  barely  won, 

While  echoes  of  anguish  drowned  the  blare, 
And  greeted  the  answer  of  brave  Cambronne. 

Thro'  the  dust  and  gloom  from  the  north  advanced, 
With  helmeted  heads  and  vigorous  breath, 

The  dragoons  of  Bliicher,  equipped  and  lanced, 
To  swell  the  red  ties  of  the  river  Death. 

And  the  Emperor  stood  on  the  gory  field, 

With  his  great  calm  eyes  in  a  strange  unrest ; 

But  his  forehead's  pale  marble  ne'er  revealed 
All  the  burning  hell  in  his  tortured  breast. 

It  was  o'er;  and  the  victor's  eager  cry 

Rose  up  in  the  night,  while  the  piercing  groans 

Of  thousand  of  heroes  left  to  die 

Blent  shrill  with  the  cannon's  monotones. 

Thro'  the  heat  of  fire,  thro'  the  bullets'  rain, 

Thro'  the  sea  of  battle  that  stormed  and  waved, 

1  he  pale  man  on  the  prancing  horse  again 

Led  his  legions  on,  for  France  might  be  saved. 


AN  EPISODE    AT    WATERLOO.  445 

And  though  all  seemed  lost,  he  was  still  adored 

By  those  valorous  hearts  that  knew  naught  of  fear  ; 

And  the  maimed  and  dying,  with  limbs  begored, 
As  he  hurried  by,  would  rise  and  cheer. 

There  was  one  poor  soldier  who  lay  between 
Five  mangled  Prussians  and  heard  him  pass  : 

lie  surmised  him  near,  for  he  had  not  seen, 

And  he  struggled  to  rise  from  the  bloody  grass. 

He  had  left  his  mother  in  old  Touraine, 

II is  sister  Jeanne,  and  his  father  blind, 
But  remembered  naught  of  their  love  again 

When  the  thought  of  his  Emperor  filled  his  mind. 

He  thought,  as  he  wallowed  in  clotted  gore, 
Of  the  sweetheart  he  quitted  against  his  will. 

Of  the  dear  old  home  lie  would  see  no  more, 
But  the  Emperor  held  his  heart's  love  still. 

His  left  arm  had  been  shattered  by  grape  and  shell, 

And  hung  to  the  bone  by  a  single  thread  ; 
Hut  he  heard  the  great  Emperor's  voice — and,  well. 
"  1  '11  give  one  last  proof  of  my  love,"  he  said. 

For  he  felt  that  his  darling  chief  was  nigh. 

And  wrenched  the  dead  arm  from  the  broken  blade, 
.And  cried  with  his  weak,  poor,  feeble  cry, 
"  It  has  served  thee  well,  and  for  thee  it  was  made  ! 

And  he  waved  it  high  in  his  frantic  might 

As  Napoleon  passed  with  a  flash  and  a  whir  ; 
And  his  last  words  rang  through  the  awful  night, 
"   /"/;•<   I' I:.)nf>crcur  !    /'/,-•<  •/'/:'////><  rt'iir  .' " 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

THE  result  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  brought  about 
by  so  many  combinations  of  circumstances,  not  counted  on 
by  Napoleon,  that  it  would  be  idle  to  fix  upon  any  of 
them  as  the  pivotal  one.  All  was  staked,  and  lost ;  and 
whether  disaster  came  by  reason  of  treason  and  disobe- 
dience on  the  part  of  those  high  in  office,  the  fact  remains 
that  the  rank  and  file  of  the  army  gained  only  honour  and 
glory.  It  is  now  eighty  years  since  the  battle  was  fought. 
With  it  ended  the  career  of  the  greatest  man  the  world 
ever  produced.  The  greatest,  because  his  life  began,  was 
made,  and  ended  within  the  space  of  twenty  years. 
From  Toulon  to  Waterloo  means  twenty-two  years  ;  but 
Napoleon's  real  career  began  in  1795,  when,  at  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  he  was  called  to  the  command  of  the  govern- 
ment troops  in  Paris.  At  forty-six  he  fought  Waterloo, 
and  retired,  leaving  behind  him  the  most  marvellous  his- 
tory ever  made  by  mortal  man.  What  the  future  of 
France  would  have  been  had  Waterloo  been  won,  no 
one  can  conjecture.  It  is  extremely  doubtful  whether 
it  was  bettered  by  the  loss  of  the  battle.  The  French 
people  were  certainly  not  at  rest  for  many  years.  The 
lily  and  the  violet  flourished  not  in  the  same  soil.  One 
went,  and  then  the  other,  until  now  France  seems  to  be  at 

446 


AFTER    THE   RATTLE    OI-     WATERLOO.  447 

peace.     What  the  coming  of  a  second    Napoleon  would 
portend  is  indeed  a  grave  question. 

AFTER   THE    BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO. 

JEAN  FRANC.OIS-CASIMIR  DKI.AVHINK. 

They  breathe  no  longer ;  let  their  ashes  rest ! 

Clamour  unjust  and  calumny 
They  stooped  not  to  confute  ;   but  flung   their  breast 

Against  the  legions  of  your  enemy, 
And  thus  avenged  themselves:   for  you  they  die. 

Woe  to  you,  woe  !   if  those  inhuman  eyes 

Can  spare  no  drops  to  mourn  your  country's  weal ; 
Shrinking  before  your  selfish  miseries; 

Against  the  common  sorrow  hard  as  steel: 
Tremble!  the  hand   of  death  upon  you  lies: 

You  may  be  forced  yourselves  to  feel. 
Hut  no. — what  son  of  France  has  spared  his  tears 

For  her  defenders,  dying  in  their  fame  ? 
Though  kings  return,  desired  through  lengthening  years. 

What  old  man's  cheek  is  tinged  not  with  her  shame? 
What  veteran,  who  their  fortune's  treason  hears, 

Feels  not   the   quickening  spark   of  his  old   youthful 
flame? 

Great  Heaven  !  what  lessons  mark  that  one  day's  page  ! 
What  ghastly  figures  that  might  crowd  an  age  ! 
How  shall  the  historic  Muse  record  the  day. 
Nor,  starting,  cast  the  trembling  pen  away.' 
Hide  from  me,  hide  those  soldiers  overborne. 
Hroken  with  toil,  with  death-bolls  crushed  and  torn.— 
Those  quivering  limbs  with  dust  defiled, 
And  bloody  Corses  upon  corses  piled  ; 


44>s  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Veil  from  mine  eyes  that  monument 

Of  nation  against   nation  spent 

In  struggling  rage  that  pants  for  breath  ; 

Spare  us  the  bands  thou  sparedst,  Death  ! 
O  Yarns!  where  the  warriors  thou  hast  led? 
Restore  Our  Legions! — give  us  back  the  dead  ! 

I  see  the  broken  squadrons  reel  ; 

The  steeds  plunge  wild  with  spurning  heel ; 

Our  eagles  trod  in  miry  gore  ; 

The  leopard  standards  swooping  o'er  ; 

The  wounded  on  their  slow  cars  dying  ; 

The  rout  disordered,  wavering,  flying; 
Tortured  with  struggles  vain,  the  throng 
Sway,  shock,  and  drag  their  shattered  mass  along, 
And  leave  behind  their  long  array — 
Wrecks,  corses,  blood, — the  foot-marks  of  their  \vay 

Through  whirlwind  smoke  and  flashing  flame, - 

O  grief ! — what  sight  appalls  mine  eye  ? 
The  sacred  band,  with  generous  shame, 

Sole  'gainst  an  army,  pause — to  die  ! 
Struck  with  the  rare  devotion,  't  is  in  vain 
The  foes  at  gaze  their  blades  restrain, 
And,  proud  to  conquer,  hem  them  round  :   the  cry 
Returns,  "  The  guard  surrender  not  !   they  die  !  " 
'T  is  said  that,  when  in  dust  they  saw  them  lie, 

A  reverend  sorrow  for  their  brave  career 
Smote  on  the  foe-  :    the}'  fixed  the  pensive  eye. 

And  first  beheld  them  undisturbed  with  fear. 


AFTER    THE  BATTLE   OF    WATERLOO.  449 

Frozen  in  death,  those  eyes  arc  terrible; 

Feats  of  the  past  their  deep-scarred  brows  engrave: 
For  these  are  they  who  bore  Italia's  sun, 

Who  o'er  Castilia's  mountain-barrier  passed  ; 
The  North  beheld  them  o'er  the  rampart  run, 

Which  frosts  of  ages  round  her  Russian  cast : 
All  sank  subdued  before  them,  and  the  date 

Of  combats  owed  this  guerdon  to  their  glory, 
Seldom  to  Franks  denied, — to  fall  elate 

On  some  proud  day  that  should  survive  in  story. 

Let  us  no  longer  mourn  them  ;  for  the  palm 
Unwithering  shades  their  features  stern  and  calm  : 
Franks!  mourn  we  for  ourselves, — our  land's  disgrace, — 
The  proud,  mean  passions  that  divide  her  race. 
What  age  so  rank  in  treasons  ?  to  our  blood 
The  love  is  alien  of  the  common  good  ; 
Friendship,  no  more  unbosomed,  hides  her  tears, 
And  man  shuns  man,  and  each  his  fellow  fears  ; 
Scared  from  her  sanctuary,  Faith  shuddering  flies 
The  din  of  oaths,  the  vaunt  of  perjuries. 

O  cursed  delirium  !  jars  deplored, 

That  yield  our  home-hearths  to  the  stranger's  sword  ! 
Our  faithless  hands  but  draw  the  gleaming  blade 
To  wound  the  bosom  which  its  point  should  aid. 

The  strangers  raze  our  fenced  walls  ; 

The  castle  stoops,  the  city  falls  ; 

Insulting  foes  their  truce  forget ; 

The  unsparing  war-bolt  thunders  yet  ; 

Flames  glare  our  ravaged  hamlets  o'er. 

And  funerals  darken  every  door; 
Drained  provinces  their  greedy  prefects  rue, 
Beneath  the  lilied  or  the  triple  hue  : 


450  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  Franks,  disputing  for  the  choice  of  power, 

Dethrone  a  banner,  or  proscribe  a  flower. 

France  !  to  our  fierce  intolerance  we  owe 

The  ills  that  from  these  sad  divisions  flow  ; 

'T  is  time  the  sacrifice  were  made  to  thee 

Of  our  suspicious  pride,  our  civic  enmity: 

Haste, — quench  the  torches  of  intestine  war  ; 

Heaven  points  the  lily  as  our  army's  star  ; 

Hoist,  then,  the  banner  of  the  white, — some  tears 

May  bathe  the  thrice-dyed  flag  which  Austerlitz  endears. 

France  !   France  !  awake,  with  one  indignant  mind  ! 
With  new-born  hosts  the  throne's  dread  precinct  bind  ! 
Disarmed,  divided,  conquerors  o'er  us  stand  ; 
Present  the  olive,  but  the  sword  in  hand. 
And  thou,  O  people,  flushed  with  our  defeat, 
To  whom  the  mourning  of  our  land  is  sweet, 
Thou  witness  of  the  death-blow  of  our  brave  ! 
Dream  not  that  France  is  vanquished  to  a  slave  ; 
Call  not  with  pride  the  avengers  yet  to  come  : 
Heaven  may  remit  the  chastening  of  our  doom  ; 
A  new  Germanicus  may  yet  demand 
Those  eagles  wrested  from  our  Varus'  hand. 


THE  FAMOUS  VICTORY. 

IT  would  never  do  to  let  so  good  an  opportunity  as 
Waterloo  pass  without  taking  advantage  of  it,  so  the 
English  writers  sharpened  their  wits,  and  went  at  their 
friends  across  the  channel  in  -the  usual  manner.  If  all 
their  efforts  had  been  as  harmless  as  the  following, 
Napoleon  himself  might  well  have  enjoyed  being  made 
fun  of.  But  this  is  a  mild  example.  Most  of  the  things 
written  and  said  were  bitterly  insulting,  and  wholly  un- 
worthy the  great  nation  of  England,  whose  boast  always 
has  been  to  respect  a  fallen  foe. 

THE  FAMOUS  VICTORY. 

\YivniKor  M.  I'KAI  i> 

Ay,  here  such  valorous  deeds  were  done 

As  ne'er  were  clone  before  ; 
Ay,  here  the  reddest  wreath  was  won 

That  ever  Gallia  wore  : 
Since  Ariosto's  wondrous  knight 

Made  all  the  Pagans  dance, 
There  never  dawned  so  bright  a  day 

As  Waterloo's  on  France. 

The  trumpet  poured  its  deafening  sound. 
Flags  fluttered  on  the  gale, 
43' 


452  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  cannon  roared,  and  heads  flew  round 

As  fast  as  summer  hail  : 
The  sabres  flashed  ;  with  rage  and  fear 

The  steeds  began  to  prance  ; 
The  English  quaked  from  front  to  rear, — 

They  never  quake  in  France  ! 

The  cuirassiers  rode  in  and  out 

As  fierce  as  wolves  and  bears  ; 
'T  was  grand  to  see  them  slash  about 

Amongst  the  English  squares  ! 
And  then  the  Polish  lancer  came, 

Careering  with  his  lance  ; 
No  wonder  Britons  blushed  for  shame. 

And  ran  away  from  France. 

The  Duke  of  York  was  killed  that  day — 

The  King  was  sadly  scarred  ; 
Lord  Eldon,  as  he  ran  away, 

Was  captured  by  the  Guard  : 
Poor  Wellington,  with  fifty  Blues, 

Escaped  by  some  strange  chance  ; 
And  henceforth  never  dared  again 

To  show  himself  in  France. 

So  Buonaparte  pitched  his  tent 

That  day  in  Grosvenor  Place  ; 
And  Xey  rode  straight  to  Parliament, 

And  broke  the  Speaker's  mace. 
"  Vive  1'Empereur  !  "  was  said  and  sung 

From  Peebles  to  Penxance  ; 
The  mayor  and  aldermen  were  hung, 

Which  made  folks  laugh  in  France. 

'1  hey  pulled  the  tower  of  London  down  ; 
Thev  burned  our  wooden  walls; 


THE   FAMOUS    VICTORY.  453 

They  brought  his  Holiness  to  town, 

And  throned  him  in  St.  Paul's : 
And  Gog  and  Magog  rubbed  their  eyes, 

Awaking  from  a  trance, 
And  grumbled  out  in  dread  surprise, 

"  Oh,  mercy  !  we  're  in  France  !  " 

They  sent  a  Regent  to  our  isle  ; 

The  little  King  of  Rome  ; 
And  squibs  and  crackers  all  the  while 

Blazed  in  the  Place  Vendome  ; 
And  ever  since,  in  arts  and  power 

They  're  making  great  advance  ; 
They  've  had  strong  beer  from  that  glad  hour, 

And  sea-coal  fires  in  France. 

MORAL. 

My  uncle,  Captain  Flanigan, 

\Yho  lost  a  leg  in  Spain, 
Tells  stories  of  a  little  man 

Who  died  at  St.  Helene : 
But,  bless  my  heart !  they  can't  be  true — 

They  're  surely  all  romance  ; 
John  Bull  was  beat  at  Waterloo — 

They  '11  swear  to  it  in  France! 


A    VISIT    TO   BONAPARTE    IN    PLYMOUTH 
SOUND. 

AFTER  his  defeat  at  Waterloo,  Napoleon  went  back  to 
Paris,  and  there  tried  to  bring  some  sort  of  order  out  of 
the  chaos  he  found,  but  all  in  vain.  Fickle  France  would 
consent  to  nothing  but  his  abdication.  Those  who  had  been 
the  most  enthusiastic  in  their  greetings  upon  his  return 
from  Elba  were  now  the  loudest  in  their  demands  that  lie 
vacate  the  throne.  In  answer  to  these  demands,  Napoleon, 
for  the  second  time,  laid  down  the  crown  ;  and  then,  as  a 
soldier,  offered  his  services  to  France  in  an  endeavour  to 
drive  back  the  invaders,  now  rapidly  approaching  Paris. 
His  offer  was  refused,  and  he  was  asked  in  a  peremptory 
manner  to  leave  Paris  and  France  as  quickly  as  possible,  else 
the  provisional  government  would  not  be  answerable  for  his 
personal  safety.  Where  should  he  go  ?  This  man,  who  had 
had  all  Europe  to  choose  from,  was  now  seeking  an  isolated 
corner  of  the  earth  to  which  he  might  flv  in  order  to  hide 

o  -• 

himself  from  his  own  countrymen  and  escape  from  the 
hands  of  his  merciless  foes.  America  was  first  thought 
of,  but  that  proving  impossible,  Napoleon  determined  to 
surrender  himself  to  England,  hoping  to  get,  at  least,  jus- 
tice from  that  constant  and  powerful  enemy.  His  letter 
to  the  Prince  Regent  proved  the  confidence  he  had  in  the 
generosity  of  the  English  Government.  On  the  fifteenth 

454 


.-/    VISIT  TO  BONAPARTE   7.V  PLYMOUTH  SOl'.VD.      455 

of  July  he  went  on  board  the  Bcllerophon  and  was  there- 
received  with  all  the  honours  due  his  exalted  rank,  and  he- 
sailed  for  England,  fully  assured  in  his  own  mind  of  receiv- 
ing all  that  he  might  in  justice  demand.  On  the  twenty- 
sixth  the  Bellerophon  arrived  at  Plymouth.  Mere  Napoleon 
was  informed  that,  instead  of  being  allowed  even  to  land 
in  England,  he  was  to  be  sent  a  prisoner  to  St.  Helena. 
The  common  people  of  England,  more  generous  and 
humane  than  the  government,  came  in  crowds  to  Pymouth 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  man  who  had  ever  been  the 
people's  friend,  and  they  greeted  him  with  kindness  and 
even  enthusiasm. 

A   VISIT   TO   BOXAPARTK    IX    PLYMOUTH    SOUND. 

(By  a  Lady.) 

ANON. 

There  is  nothing  so  dull  as  mere  fact,  you  '11  admit. 

While  you  read  my  detail,  unenlivened  by  wit  ; 

My  friends  will  believe,  though  they  're  told  it   in  rhyme, 

That  I  thought  to  return  in  a  far  shorter  time. 

When  at  one  we  're  resolv'd,  by  half  past  on  the  move. 

And  by  two,  but  a  trio,  \ve  reach  Mutton  Cove: 

When  approaching  the  quay  such  a  rabble  and  rout. 

That  we  ask,  "  My  good  friend,  what  is  all  this  about  ?  " 

"They  are  rowing  a  race,  and  some  boats  are  come  in. 

While  these  people  are  waiting  till  t'  others  begin." 

Well  aware  of  our  folly,  with  risible  lip, 

The  boatman  we  told  to  make  haste  to  the  ship; 

On  the  colours  of  fish,  here  by  hampers-full  landing, 

We  ga/.e  for  amusement,  while  still  we  're  kept  standing. 

At  length  to  the  Admiral's  stairs  we  have  got. 

See  his  party  on  board,  and  hear  tunes  from  his  yacht. 

The  day  is  delightful,  the  gale  just  enough 


456  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

For  the  sea  to  look  lively  without  being  rough. 

With  those  first  at  the  ship,  our  sight  costs  the  dearer, 

As  we  've  longer  to  wait,  and  not,  in  the  end,  nearer; 

For  by  land  and  by  water  so  different  the  case  is, 

'T  was  long  before  we  were  jam'd  into  our  places  ; 

But  on  further  advice  we  '11  at  present  be  dumb, 

For  half  the  spectators,  you  know,  are  now  come : 

In  one  boat  a  bevy,  all  sarcenet  and  veil, 

In  the  next  some  good  fellows  while  toping  their  ale. 

"  Avast  !  here  's  the    guard   boat."     "  Aye,  here  it  comes 

smack." 

And  the  ladies  cry,  "Captain,  they  '11  drive  us  all  back  !  " 
Then  some  bully  our  men  with,  "  Skull  out   there,  skull 

out!  " 

And  others  check  these  with  "  Mind  what  you  're  about." 
Here  's  a  crazy  old  boat,  laded  dry  by  a  shoe  ; 
There,  a  gay  painted  barge  is  forced  on  our  view  ; 
In  this,  while  Don  Solus  is  jeered  by  the  mob, 
"  See  that  empty  boat  ;  turn  it  out."  "  Here  's  a  fine  job." 
Cries  one,  of  some  dozens  squeezed  into  the  next, 
"  I  've  left  the  pork  pie  ;  Oh  dear,  I  'm  so  vex'd  !  " 
In  the  long  boat,  that  shews  us  profusion  of  oar, 
From  the  captain  bursts  forth  a  most  terrible  roar 
At  his  men  ;  but  the  anger  about  who,  or  what, 
Though  they  still  remember,  we  soon  had  forgot. 
Here  infants  were  crying,  mothers  scolding  downright, 
While  the  next  party  laughs  at  some  comical  sight. 
Now  watches  and  spy-glasses  make  their  appearance, 
And  Impatience,  that  vixen,  begins  interference  ; 
To  beguile  her,  through  portholes  we  eagerly  stare, 
For  the  nobles  on  deck  are  all  taking  the  air. 
"  Hey  dey,  what  a  bustle  !  "   then,  "  All  safe,  all  safe  !  " 
The  crowd  is  return'd  to  its  chatter  and  laugh. 
"  Pray,  what  was  the  matter  ?  "   "  From  that  boat  near  the 

ship 


A    VISIT  TO  BONAPARTE  IN  PLYMOUTH  SOUND.      457 

A  woman  fell  over,  and  so  got  a  dip." 

But  a  hum  of  applause — yes,  his  triumph  is  full  ; 

Yet  this  hum  of  applause  has  betrayed  our  John  Bull. 

"What  hum  of  applause  ?  Come,  I  prithee  be  brief." 

Why,  John  was  delighted  to  see  them  ship  beef. 

With  a  smile  't  is  observed  by  the  Briton  polite, 

How  the  glee  of  the  crowd  was  improv'd  by  the  sight  ; 

For  the  rough,  honest  tar  had  declared,  from  his  heart, 

That  he  thought  this  a  sight  that  would  beat  Bonaparte. 

Some,  again,  with  composure,  predict  peace  and  war. 

Others  look  at  the  great  folks  and  fancy  a  star  ; 

But  we,  much  fatigued,  six  o'clock  now  approaching, 

And  on  our  good  nature  we  thought  them  encroaching 

When  boats  are  made  bridges  ;  nay,  tempted  to  think 

That  through    some    of  these   freedoms    not  strange  we 

should  sink. 

But  here  I  must  mention,  when  all  was  most  merry, 
As  here  is  each  size,  from  the  long  boat  to  wherry. 
When  the  crowd  should  disperse,  I  was  fearful,  I  own. 
Lest  your  small  boats  by  barges  should  then  be  run  down. 
But  a  truce  with  our  hopes,  our  predictions,  and  fears, 
For  now — yes,  at  last — our  grand  object  appears  ; 
And  now  every  eye  to  the  ship  is  directed, 
Though  to  see  Bonaparte  I  no  longer  expected  ; 
For  between  us  what  number  of  men  !  and  aghast 
We  stood,  as  still  thicker  and  thicker  the  mast,  (•'mass) 
But  now  see  Napoleon,  who  seems  in   his  figure 
What  we  call  mediocre,  nor  smaller,  nor  bigger. 
For  in  spite  of  our  fears,  how  it  was  I  can't  tell, 
What  our  distance  allowed  of,  we  saw  very  well. 
But  in  this  we're  full  right,  for  now,  hurry-scurry. 
Boat  rows  against  boat  with  the  madness  of  fury. 
The  show  was  all  over,  but  time  was  outstaid 
By  some,  and  by  others  attempts  were  still  made 
To  get  round  the  ship,  in  hopes  Bonaparte  might 
At  some  place  yet  be  seen,  tints  to  perfect  their  sight. 


NAPOLEON'S  LAST   LOOK. 

HISTORIANS  differ  as  to  just  when  and  where  Napoleon 
took  his  last  look  at  France  after  his  surrender  to  Cap- 
tain Maitland  on  board  the  BcllcropJion ;  but  it  seems 
fairly  well  settled  that  the  incident  occurred  as  the  Nor- 
thumberland passed  Cape  de  la  Hogue  on  the  way  out 
from  Plymouth  to  St.  Helena,  and  after  Napoleon  had 
been  transferred  to  that  vessel.  A  number  of  writers  hold 
that  it  was  on  the  twenty-third  of  July,  when  passing  Cape 
Ushant,  going  from  Rochefort  to  Plymouth,  that  the 
Emperor  saw  France  for  the  last  time.  Cape  Ushant,  it  is 
true,  was  in  sight  on  the  morning  of  the  day  mentioned, 
and  Napoleon,  with  his  suite,  from  the  deck  of  the  Bel- 
IcropJion,  gazed  long  and  sadly  upon  it.  That  scene  has 
been  the  theme  of  the  poet  and  the  artist,  and  it  is  gen- 
erally accepted  as  representing  Napoleon's  farewell  to 
France  ;  but  the  best  authorities  agree  that  it  was  in  Au- 
gust, as  the  NortJiumbcrland passed  Cape  de  la  Hogue,  that 
the  last  glimpse  of  France  was  obtained.  However  this 
maybe,  the  scene,  wherever  it  took  place,  must  have  been 
an  impressive  and  an  affecting  one  to  those  who  witnessed 
it.  What  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  the 
mind  of  Napoleon  as  he  gazed  upon  those  fast  receding 
shores,  never  again  to  be  seen  by  him  ?  Still  in  years  a 
young  man,  he  was  going  into  an  exile  worse  than  death 

453 


NAPOLEON'S   LAST  LOOK.  459 

to  his  proud  and  haughty  spirit.  Condemned  to  end  his 
existence  upon  a  cold  and  barren  isle,  he  was  leaving  be- 
hind the  land  in  which  he  had  won  such  high  distinction 
and  enjoyed  such  power  and  glory  as  had  never  before 
been  equalled.  Did  he  think  of  Lodi  and  Arcola,  of 
Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  of  Jena  and  Friedland  and 
Wagram,  and  the  many  other  fields  upon  which  he  had 
won  such  wonderful  renown  ?  Did  he  think  of  Moscow 
and  the  train  of  disasters  that  had  followed  him  after 
leaving  that  ancient  city  of  the  Czars  ;  of  bloody  Water- 
loo, so  recent,  and  so  decisive  of  his  fate?  He  who  so 
lately  had  been  master  of  the  world,  was  now  only  per- 
mitted to  gaze  upon,  and  that  for  the  last  time,  the 
country  he  had  found  so  poor  and  had  made  so  mighty 
and  so  rich.  Surely  he  had  food  enough  for  reflection. 

XAPOLLON'S  LAST  LOOK. 

BAKTIIOI.OMI-AV  SIMMONS. 

What  of  the  night,  ho!   Watcher  there 

Upon  the  armed  deck, 
That  holds  within  its  thunderous  lair 

The  last  of  empire's  wreck, — 
E'en  him  whose  capture  now  the  chain 

From  captive  earth  shall  smite  ; 
IIo!  rocked  upon  the  moaning  main, 

Watcher,  what  of  the  night? 

''  The  stars  are  waning  fast,  the  curl 

Of  morning's  coming  breeze 
Far  in  the  north  begins  to  furl 

Night's  vapour  from  the  seas. 
Her  every  shred  of  canvas  spread, 

The  proud  ship  plunges  free, 


460  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

While  bears  afar,  with  stormy  head, 
Cape  Ushant  on  our  lee." 

At  that  last  word,  as  trumpet-stirred, 

Forth  in  the  dawning  gray 
A  silent  man  made  to  the  deck 

His  solitary  way, 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  poop,  he  gazed 

Till  on  his  straining  view 
That  cloudlike  speck  of  land,  upraised, 

Distinct,  but  slowly  grew. 

Well  may  he  look  until  his  frame 

Maddens  to  marble  there  ; 
He  risked  Renown's  all-grasping  game,— 

Dominion  or  despair, — 
And  lost;  and  lo !   in  vapour  furled, 

The  last  of  that  loved  France, 
For  which  his  prowess  cursed  the  world, 

Is  dwindling  from  his  glance. 

He  lives,  perchance,  the  past  again, 

From  the  fierce  hour  when  first 
On  the  astounded  hearts  of  men 

His  meteor-presence  burst ; 
When  blood-besotted  Anarchy 

Sank  quelled  amid  the  roar 
Of  thy  far-sweeping  musketry, 

Eventful  Thermidor  ! 


Again  he  grasps  the  victor-crown 
Marengo's  carnage  yields, 

Or  bursts  o'er  Lodi,  beating  down 
Bavaria's  thousand  shields; 


N A  POLECAT'S  LAST  LOOK.  461 

Then,  turning  from  the  battle-sod, 

Assumes  the  Consul's  palm, 
Or  seizes  giant  empire's  rod 

In  solemn  Notre  Dame. 


And  darker  thoughts  oppress  him  now, — 

Her  ill-requited  love, 
Whose  faith,  as  beauteous  as  her  brow. 

Brought  blessings  from  above  ; 

o  o 

Her  trampled  heart,  his  darkening  star. 

The  cry  of  outraged  man, 
And  white-lipped  Rout  and  wolfish  War, 

Loud  thundering  on  his  van. 

Rave  on,  thou  far-resounding  deep, 

Whose  billows  round  him  roll ! 
Thou  'rt  calmness  to  the  storms  that  sweep 

This  moment  o'er  his  soul. 
Black  chaos  swims  before  him,  spread 

With  trophy-shaping  bones  ; 
The  council-strife,  the  battle-dead, 

Rent  charters,  cloven  thrones. 

Vet,  proud  one  !   could  the  loftiest  day 

Of  thy  transcendent  power 
Match  with  the  soul-compelling  sway 

Which  in  this  dreadful  hour 
Aids  thee  to  hide  beneath  the  show 

Of  calmest  lip  and  eye 
The  hell  that  wars  and  works  below. 

The  quenchless  thirst  to  die  ? 

The  white  dawn  crimsoned  into  morn, 
The  morninir  flashed  to  duv, 


462  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  the  sun  followed,  glory-born, 

Rejoicing  on  his  way  ; 
And  still  o'er  ocean's  kindling  flood 

That  muser  cast  his  view, 
While  round  him  awed,  and  silent,  stood 

His  fate's  devoted  few. 

Oh  for  the  sulphurous  eve  of  June, 

When  down  that  Belgian  hill 
His  bristling  Guards'  superb  platoon 

lie  led  unbroken  still ! 
Now  would  he  pause,  and  quit  their  side 

Upon  destruction's  marge, 
Nor  kinglike  share  with  desperate  pride 

Their  vainly  glorious  charge  ? 

No, — gladly  forward  he  would  dash 

Amid  that  onset  on, 
Where  blazing  shot  and  sabre-crash 

Pealed  o'er  his  empire  gone  ; 
There,  'neath  his  vanquished  eagles  tost. 

Should  close  his  grand  career  : 
Girt  by  his  heaped  and  slaughtered  host 

lie  lived, — for  fetters  here  ! 

Enough, — in  noontide's  yellow  light 

Cape  Ushant  melts  away, 
Kven  as  his  kingdom's  shattered  might 

Shall  utterly  decay, 
Save  when  his  spirit-shaking  story. 

In  years  remotely  dim, 
Warms  some  pale  minstrel  with  its  glory 

To  raise  the  sonir  to  him. 


MllRAT. 
From  an  engraving  by  Rosmcesler,  after  fin 

Zwickau  (no  date). 


THE  DEATH  OF  MURAT. 

WHILE  Napoleon  was  on  his  way  to  St.  Helena,  his 
brother-in-law,  that  gallant  horseman,  Murat,  met  his  fate. 
It  will  be  remembered,  that  directly  after  the  return  of 
the  French  army  from  Russia,  in  1812,  Murat,  in  order  to 
save  his  crown,  basely  deserted  the  Emperor,  retired  to 
his  own  kingdom,  and  there  took  up  arms  against  France 
and  his  former  comrades.  After  Napoleon's  first  abdica- 
tion the  Allies  agreed  to  reward  M unit's  treachery  with 
treachery,  and  they  passed  a  resolution  at  the  Congress 
of  Vienna  expelling  him  from  Naples  and  awarding  that 
country  to  its  former  rulers.  Before  this  act  of  perfidy 
could  be  carried  into  effect,  Napoleon  was  again  in  France 
and  at  the  head  of  his  army.  Murat,  with  all  his  old-time 
impetuosity,  rushed  at  once  to  arms,  and  declared  war 
against  the  Allies,  hoping  by  his  zeal  to  reinstate  himself 
in  the  favour  of  the  Emperor.  The  result  of  his  hasty  act 
was  the  inevitable  one.  lie  was  crushed  by  overwhelm- 
ing strength,  his  little  army  cut  to  pieces,  and  he  lett  a 
fugitive.  Escaping  to  France,  he  arrived  there  only  in  time 
to  learn  of  the  final  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  without  being 
able  to  assist,  by  the  aid  of  his  might)'  sword,  in  averting 
it.  In  fact,  his  untimely  action  in  drawing  that  formidable 
weapon  at  home  \vas,  no  doubt,  a  great  detriment  t«>  the 
cause  he  wished  to  advance.  After  Napoleon's  departure 

4<>3 


464  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

for  St.  Helena,  Murat  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  regain 
his  throne  ;  which  ended  in  his  being  arrested,  tried  by 
court-martial,  and  condemned  to  immediate  execution. 
The  day  before  St.  Helena  was  sighted  by  those  on  board 
the  Northumberland,  Murat  expiated  all  his  faults  by 
bravely  dying  the  death  of  a  soldier. 

THE   DEATH    OF   MURAT. 

THOMAS  ATKINSON. 

"  My  hour  is  come.     Forget  me  not.    My  blessing  is  with 

you  ; 
\Yith   you   my  last,  my  fondest  thought ;  with    you   my 

heart's  adieu. 
Farewell,    farewell,    my    Caroline,    my    children's    doting 

mother  ! 
I  made  thee  wife,  Fate   made  thee  queen  ;   one  hour  and 

thou  art  neither. 

Farewell,  my  sweet  Letitia!  my  love  is  with  thee  still  ; 
Louise  and  Lucien,  adieu  ;  and  thou,  my  own  Achille." 
With  quivering  lip,  but  with  no  tear, — or  tear  that  gazers 

saw,— 
These   words,  to  all  his  heart  held   dear,  thus  wrote  the 

brave  Murat. 

Then  of  the  locks  which,  dark  and  large,  o'er  his  broad 
shoulders  hung, 

That  streamed  war-pennons  in  the  charge,  yet  like  caress- 
ings  clung 

Iii  peace  around  his  forehead  high,  which  more  than 
diadem 

Beseemed  the  curls  that  lovingly  replaced  the  cold,  hard 
gem, 

He  cut  him  one  for  wife,  for  child — 't  was  all  he  had  to 
will  ; 


THE   DEA  777   OF  MURA  T.  465 

But  with  the  regal  wealth  and  state  he  lost   its  heartless 

chill. 

The  iciness  of  alien  power  what  gushing  love  may  thaw 
The  agony  of  such  an  hour  as  this — thy  last,  Murat  ? 

"  Comrade,  though  foe,  a  soldier  asks  from  thee  a  soldier's 

aid; 
They  're  not  a  warrior's  only  tasks  that  need  his  blood  and 

blade  ; 

That  upon  which  I  latest  gaze,  that  which  I  fondest  clasp, 
When  death  upon  my  eyeballs  sinks  and   stiffens  on   my 

grasp, 
This,  and  these  locks  around  it  twined,  say,  wilt  thou  sec 

them  sent, 
Need  I  say  where  ?     Enough  !   't  is  kind  !    To  death,  then  ! 

I  'm  content. 
Oh,  to  have   found   death   in   the    field,   not  as  a  chained 

outlaw  ! 
Xo  more!   To  destiny  I  yield,  with  mightier  than  Murat." 

They    led    him    forth  ;   't  was    but    a    stride    between   his 

prison  room 
And  where,  with  yet   a  monarch's  pride,  he  met  a  felon'-; 

doom. 
"Soldiers,    your    mu/./.les    to    my    breast    will    leave    brief 

space  for  pain. 
Strike  to  the  heart  !         His  last  behest  was  uttered  not  in 

vain. 
lie  turned  full  to  the  levelled  tubes  that  held  the  wMied- 

for  boon  ; 
Hega/ed    upon    the   love-clasped    pledge; — then  volleyed 

the  platoon. 
And    when    their    hold    the   hands    gave    up,    the    pitying 

gaxers  saw 
In  the  dear  imatre  of  a  wife  thv  heart's   best   trait,  Murat. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MARSHAL  NEY. 

THE  execution  of  Marshal  Ney  may  be  justified  upon 
strictly  technical  grounds,  but  it  can  never  be  excused. 
According  to  the  terms  of  the  capitulation  of  Paris  he 
should  have  gone  free.  Wellington  could  have  saved 
him,  if  he  would  ;  but  what  mercy  had  Ney  to  expect  at 
Wellington's  hands,  when  this  same  "  Iron  Duke  "  had 
advised  the  English  Government,  when  it  had  Napoleon 
in  its  power,  to  turn  him  over  to  the  French  authorities  to 
be  dealt  with  as  a  traitor?  There  was  but  little  differ- 
ence in  sentiment  in  regard  to  their  conquered  foe  be- 
tween the  English  duke  and  the  Prussian  marshal  ;  they 
both  sought  revenge  on  about  the  same  level.  And  it  is 

o  o 

beyond  comprehension  how  any  court  in  France  could 
condemn  Marshal  Ney  to  be  shot  to  death  by  French- 
men. With  the  advance  guard  on  every  forward  move- 
ment, with  the  rear  guard  on  every  retreat,  Ney  had 
fought  his  hundred  battles  for  France,  and  never  one 
against  her.  Guilty  he  may  have  been  of  a  very  grave 
offence,  but  did  his  many  years  of  noble  service  for  his 
country  count  for  nothing  in  the  balance?  Napoleon 
pardoned  Ney's  faults  with  regard  to  himself,  and  they 
were  many,  and  he  recognised  him  always  as  the  "  bravest 
of  the  brave."  Surely  Louis  XVIII.  could,  without  dis- 
honour, have  forgiven  the  sturdy,  impulsive  old  marshal 

466 


ON   THE   DEATH   Ol-    MARSHAL   KEY,  467 

his  one  offence  against  him.  The  Treaty  of  Paris  stipu- 
lated that  no  person  should  be  molested  for  his  political 
opinions  or  conduct  during  the  Hundred  Days,  and  yet. 
in  spite  of  this  solemn  agreement,  fifty-eight  persons  were 
banished  and  three  condemned  to  death.  The  young  and 
gallant  Colonel  Labedoyere  suffered  the  penalty  with 
Ney.  Lavalette  escaped. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MARSHAL    NEY. 

ANON. 

Could  haughty  Britain  stoop  so  low  from  her  laurel-girded 
throne, 

When  that  noble  chief  was  fallen,  and  all  his  glory  gone? 

When  vanished  was  his  marshal  pride,  and  torn  his  wax- 
ing plume, 

To  lead  the  captive  warrior  forth  to  meet  a  felon's  doom  .' 

With  nations  banded  at  her  side, — when  from  her  throne 
she  hurled 

The  arbiter  of  kingdoms  wide,  the  conqueror  of  tin- 
world, — 

Could  she  not  then  have;  stretched  forth  her  victor  .inn 
to  save 

Napoleon's  honoured  chieftain—  the  bravest  ot  the  brave  ' 

When    bayonets    flashed    around    him,   and   the   sheen   oi 

sabres  bright. 
As  he  clove  his  red  path   forward  through  the  thickest  <>t 

the  fight  ; 
Where'er  his  waving  cre>t  was  seen,  tossed  by  the  battles 

breath. 
There  his  brave  host  followed  him  to  victorv  or  to  death. 


A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Look  on  him  now,  how  fearlessly  he  inarches  forth  to  die! 
How  proud  his  noble  bearing,  and  how  calm  that  haughty 

eye  ! 

And  his  voice  will  sound  its  latest  in  tones  as  full  and  clear 
As  when  above  the  fight  it  rose  in  spirit-stirring  cheer. 

lie  waved  his  white-plumed  hat  high  as  he  did  of  yore, 
When  his  comrades  stood  behind  him,  the  enemy  before  ; 
"Adieu!   my   brethren!"  was  the  last,    the    hero's  brief 

farewell — 
The   signal  waved,   the   volley    streamed,  and   the   noble 

chieftain  fell. 

He  fell — whose  life  the  northern  snows  on  red   Smolcn- 

sko's  plain, 
The  Cossack's  lance,  more  deadly  still,  had  both  assailed  in 

vain  ; 
Whose    heart,    though    swayed    by   destiny,    was   to    the 

mighty  true — 
He    fell    who    stood    where     thousands    died,    at    deadly 

Waterloo  ! 

And,  oh  !   if  in  that  bloody  day  when  the  star  of  victory 

waned, 
Amid  the  thundering  cannon's   smoke,   nor  e'en   a  hope 

remained  ; 
Oh  !    if  the  death   so   oft   he  dared   had   found   him   even 

then, 
And  he  had  died,  as  soldiers  die,  on   the  field  of  fighting 

men  ; 

lie  should  have  fallen  with  the  brave  upon  that  glorious 

field, 
With  those  immortal  guards  who  died,  but  knew  not  how 

to  yield, 


ON  THE   DEATH   OF  .MA  RSI  I A  I.    KEY.  469 

Leading  the   chivalry   of    France   along   like   a   resist los 

tide, 
Where  battle  raged  the  thickest,  't  was  there  he  should 

have  died. 

And  can  it  be  that  England — the  glorious  and  the  free. 
The   conqueror  of  France  on  earth,  the  mistress  of  the 

sea — 

So  far  forgot  her  laurelled  pride,  nor  even  dared  to  save 
The  glory  and   the  pride  of  France — the  bravest  of  the 

brave  ? 

She    did    forget,    and    from     that   hour   forever  shall   her 

name 
Be  stained    with   the  accursed   spot,  the   impress  of  her 

shame  ; 
The  mightiest  power  looked   placid   on  and  saw  her  allies 

slay, 
When  the  fight  he  led  so  well  was  o'er,  all  that  could  die 

of  Xey. 

And,  oh!  when  dark  oblivion  has  forever  o'er  them 
thrown 

The  shadow  of  her  silent  pall,  n<>r  e'en  their  names  are 
known : 

The  memory  then  of  him  they  slew  shall  glorious  shim- 
on  high, 

In  the  light  of  fame's  immortal  wreath — "  the  brave  can 
never  die  ! 


MADAME  LAVALETTE. 

THE  escape  of  Lavalette  from  prison  was  due  to  the 
efforts  of  his  noble  wife,  aided  by  three  gallant  and 
friendly  English  officers.  Condemned  to  die  like  Ney 
and  Labedoyere,  Lavalette  had  bidden  farewell  to  his 
friends  and  the  world,  and  it  only  remained  for  him  to 
say  good-by  to  his  wife  and  child  before  being  led  to 
execution.  But  this  heroic  wife  was  of  no  mind  to  part 
with  her  beloved  husband,  if  escape  for  him  was  possible, 
and  she  determined  on  making  a  bold  attempt  to  save 
him.  Being  permitted,  with  her  daughter,  to  see  her  hus- 
band, as  it  was  supposed  for  the  last  time,  Madame 
Lavalette  induced  him  to  change  garments  with  her, 
and  so  pass  out  in  safety,  in  her  stead,  while  she  remained 
behind  to  suffer  the  consequence  of  her  act.  The  guard 
and  the  prison  walls  being  passed,  Lavalette,  with  the  aid 
of  the  English  officers,  was  soon  outside  the  gates  of 
Paris  and  across  the  frontier  of  France.  To  the  wit,  the 
nerve,  and  the  courage  of  his  wife  he  owed  his  life,  and  in 
after  years  she  had  her  reward  when  Lavalette  was  par- 
doned and  allowed  to  return  to  France  and  his  family. 

MADAME    I.AVAT.ETTE. 

ANON. 

Let  Edinburgh  critics  o'erwhelm  with  their  praises 
Their  Madame  de  Stael,  and  their  fam'd  L'Epinasse  ; 

Like  a  meteor,  at  best,  proud  Philosophy  blazes, 
And  the  fame  of  a  wit  is  as  brittle  as  glass  : 

470 


MA  DA  ME   1. .-}  I '.-/  /. £  TTE.  4  / 1 

But  cheering  's  the  beam  and  unfading  the  splendour 
Of  thy  torch,  wedded  love  !  and  it  never  has  yet 

Shone  with  lustre  more  holy,  more  pure,  or  more  tender, 
Than  it  sheds  on  the  name  of  the  fair  Lavalette. 

Then  fill  high  the  wine-cup,  e'en  virtue  shall  bless  it, 

And  hallow  the  goblet  which  foams  to  her  name  ; 
The  warm  lip  of  beauty  shall  piously  press  it. 

And  Hymen  shall  honour  the  pledge  to  her  fame  : 
To  the  health  of  the  woman,  who  freedom  and  life,  to-). 

Has  risk'd  for  her  husband,  we  '11  pay  the  just  debt  ; 
And  hail  with  applauses  the  heroine  and  wife,  too. 

The  constant,  the  noble,  the  fair  Lavalette. 

Her  foes  have  awarded,  in  impotent  malice, 

To  their  captive  a  doom  which  all  Europe  abhors, 
And  turns  from  the  stairs  of  the  priest-haunted  palace, 

While  those  who  replaced    them  there  blush   for   their 

cause. 
But  in  ages  to  come,  when  the  blood-tarnish'd  glory 

Of  dukes,  and  of  marshals  in  darkness  hath  set, 
Hearts  shall  throb,  eyes  shall  glisten,  at  reading  the  story 

Of  the  fond  self-devotion  of  fair  Lavalette. 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  LEGION  OF  HONOUR. 

As  the  shores  of  France  disappeared  beneath  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  Napoleon's  thoughts,  as  he  stood  upon  the 
deck  of  the  Northumberland,  may  well  have  been  of  him- 
self ;  of  the  wonderful  destiny  which  had  been  his  ;  of  the 
"star"  he  had  followed  blindly  so  many  years,  and 
which  had  led  him  from  obscurity  to  the  most  dazzling 
splendour  ever  attained  by  man  ;  of  the  "  star  "  that  had 
lured  him  on  from  victory  to  victory,  until  he  had  reached 
the  very  zenith  of  power  and  glory,  only,  in  the  end,  to 
draw  him,  by  the  renewed  brightness  of  its  baneful  light, 
to  the  fatal  field  of  "Waterloo,  there  to  betray  him,  and 
vanish,  for  all  time,  from  his  sight.  From  Corsica  to  the 
throne  of  France  !  from  Austerlitz  to  St.  Helena  !  Well, 
indeed,  may  Napoleon,  as  he  took  his  last  look  at  his 
beloved  country,  have  thought  of  "  his  star  "  and  of  the 
history  he  had  made,  following  whither  it  had  beckoned 
him. 

THE    STAR    OF    THE    LEGION    OF    HONOUR. 

Ci.  W.  CTTIKR. 

"  O'er  Ajaccio's  spires — Corsica's  isle — 

And  ocean's  breast,  that  foam'd  the  while — 

A  beauteous  paradise  of  earth  ! — 

That  star  arose  to  hail  my  birth, 

And  guide  me  to  the  haughtiest  throne 

o  o 

That  any  save  the  gods  have  known — 

47- 


THE    STAR    OF  THE  LEGION  OF  HOXOl'K.  473 

At  least  that  e'er  was  bought  with  blood, 
From  Indus  to  the  Volga's  flood. 
In  halcyon  peace  or  battle  fray 
I  've  read  my  fortune  in  its  ray 
When  midst  night's  gorgeous  coronal 
Of  millions,  it  outshone  them  all  ; 
Or  tempest  robed,  its  cheering  beam 
Blazed  where  no  other  dared  to  gleam. 
My  midnight  vigils  to  beguile, 
I  Ve  watched  its  image  in  the  Nile  ; 
And  where  the  Magi  used  to  ga/.e, 

To  form  the  horoscope  of  kings, 
I  've  joyed  to  see  its  silver  blaze 

Fall  on  my  eagle's  folded  wings. 

"  O'er  Mount  St.  Bernard's  awful  height, 
All  redly  on  the  brow  of  night, 
What  time  my  meteor  banners  rose 
O'er  avalanche  and  Alpine  snows, 
And  gathered  up  those  mighty  crowds 
Around  my  standard  in  the  clouds. 
And  still  more  brilliant  did  it  rise 
Above  the  smoke-enveloped  skies 
Of  Mincio — Wagram — Marengo — 
And  Hohcnlinden's  blushing  snow, 
When  droop'd  my  standard  o'er  the  field 
Where  empires  had  been  taught  to  yield  : 
And  brighter  still,  and  brighter  glow'd. 
As  on  the  mighty  empire  flow'd, 
That  to  my  very  feet  swept  down 
The  Bourbon  and  the  iron  crown. 

And  redder  still,  and  redder  beam'd 

Till  Venice — Naples — Rome  —  were  mine  ; 

My  banners  o'er  the  Tagus  stream'd. 
And  flam'd  along  the  Rhine. 


474  --/    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

"  And  yet,  thou  bright  and  glorious  star, 
Thou  'st  tempted  even  me  too  far  ; 
I  trembled  as  thy  light  grew  tame 
O'er  Moscow's  rolling  sea  of  flame, 
And  saw  an  hundred  thousand  lay 
In  death  beneath  thy  frozen  ray. 
That  instant  from  my  grasp  was  hurl'd 
The  /Egis  of  a  crouching  world  ; 
And  o'er  the  retrospect  of  blood, 
A  musing,  powerless  man  I  stood, 
Till  round  my  throbbing  brow  accurst 
The  crumbling  Kremlin's  cinders  burst. 
I  did  not  weep,  I  did  not  pray  ; 
I  wished  not  to  survive  that  day  ; 
And  I  had  perish 'd  with  a  smile, 
Beneath  so  grand  a  funeral  pile  ; 
But  Beauharnais  and  Murat  bore 

Me  struggling  in  their  arms  away, 
Where  hilt  and  rowel  red  with  gore, 

My  famish'd  ranks  had  won  that  day. 

"  Once  more,  from  Elba's  pictured  plain, 

I  saw  thee,  o'er  the  storm}'  main, 

So  fiercely  glow,  so  redly  shine, 

I  thought  the  world  again  was  mine  ; 

And  springing  to  my  glorious  France, 

I  bared  my  bosom  to  her  lance, 

And  wept,  tho'  fallen,  still  to  see, 

Of  all  my  veteran  soldiery, 

Xot  one  but  would,  to  shield  my  life, 

Still  venture  in  the  deadliest  strife  ; 

And  freely,  ere  my  blood  had  flown, 

A  nation  would  have  poured  its  own. 

But,  treacherous  star  !  what  boots  to  tell 

The  grief     the  agony   -the  hell 


THE    STAR    OF    THE    LEGIOX   OF  HONOUR.          475 

That  wrung  my  heart,  as  pallid  grew 
Thy  blaze  o'er  damning  Waterloo  ! 
When  urged  my  bugle's  wild  alarms 
The  few  against  the  world  in  arms ! 
While  yet  the  iron  storm  was  driven, 

And  gush'd  the  war-cloud's  crimson  rain, 
I  saw  thy  light  retreat  from  heaven, 
And  set — to  rise — no  !  ne'er  again  !  " 


DESCRIPTION    OF    ST.   HELENA. 

Ox  the  fifteenth  of  October,  1815,  the  island  of  St. 
Helena  appeared  in  sight,  and  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day  Napoleon  was  permitted  to  land.  The  fe\v  lines 
following  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  future  home  of  the  Em- 
peror, and  of  the  place  where  for  six  years  he  was  to  live 
a  life  of  pain  and  anguish,  both  of  body  and  of  mind. 

DESCRIPTION   OF    ST.    HELENA. 


Rugged  rocks  and  lofty  mountains, 

Interspers'd  with  crystal  fountains  ; 

Here  and  there  a  grove  of   trees, 

Are  all  the  wandering  stranger  sees  ; 

The  tradesmen,  imitating  fops, 

With  heads  as  empty  as  their  shops  ; 

Unsocial  wretches  here  reside, 

Alike  their  poverty  and  pride  : 

Throughout  this  isle  there's  scarce  a  creature 

With  either  breeding  or  good  nature  ; 

For  rugged  rocks  and  barren  fields 

Are  all  that  St.  Helena  yields. 


47'*' 


EPISTLE  FROM  TOM  CRIB  TO  BIG  BEN. 

THOMAS  MOORE  was  an  Irishman,  which  fact  will 
probably  explain  why  he  saw  in  a  fallen  foe  only  that 
which  he  could  respect  ;  nothing  to  insult  or  abuse.  Not 
even  when  safely  imprisoned  at  St.  Helena  did  the  Eng- 
lish writers,  as  a  rule,  cease  to  revile  their  late  mighty 
enemy,  and  the  government  was  still  worse  in  its  treat- 
ment of  him  who  had  yielded  on  the  field  of  battle  after 
making  one  of  the  most  gallant  and  heroic  struggles  re- 
corded in  history.  The  rebuke  administered  to  those  in 
authority  in  England,  in  the  following  verses,  under  the 
guise  of  sporting  parlance,  was  clearly  merited  ;  and  had 
it  been  properly  received  and  acted  upon,  the  credit  and 
honour  of  a  great  kingdom  would  not  have  suffered  as  it 
has,  because  of  the  vile  treatment  awarded  to  Napoleon 
when  a  helpless  captive  in  its  hands. 

EPISTLE    FROM    TOM    CRII!    TO    I!IG    REX. 

THOMAS  MOOHK. 

What  !   Ben,  my  old  hero,  is  this  your  renown  ? 
Is  this  the  new  go? — kick  a  man  when  he  's  down  ! 
When  the  foe  has  knock'd  under,  to  tread  on  him  then  — 
By  the  fist  of  my  father,  1  blush  for  thee,  Ben  ! 
"  Foul  !   foul  !  "  all  the  lads  of  the  Fancy  exclaim 
Charley  Shock  is  electrified    -Belcher  spits  flame  — 

477 


478  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  Molyneux — ay,  even  Blackey  cries  "  shame  !  " 
Time  was  when  John  Bull  little  difference  spied 
'Twixt  the  foe  at  his  feet  and  the  friend  at  his  side  : 
When  he  found  (such  his  humour  in  fighting  and  eating) 
His  foe,  like  his  beefsteak,  the  sweeter  for  beating. 
But    this    comes.    Master    Ben,    of    your    cursed    foreign 

notions, 

Your  trinkets,  wigs,  thingumbobs,  gold  lace,  and  lotions  ; 
Your  Noyeaus,  Curacoas,  and  the  devil  knows  what — 
(One  swig  of  Blue  Ruin  is  worth  the  whole  lot !) 
Your  great  and  small  crosses — (my  eyes,  what  a  brood  ! 
A  cross-buttock  from  me  would  do  some  of  them  good  !) — 
Which  have  spoil'd  you,  till  hardly  a  drop,  my  old  por- 
poise, 

Of  pure  English  claret  is  left  in  your  corpus  ; 
And  (as  Jim  says),  the  only  one  trick,  good  or  bad. 
Of  the  Fancy  you  're  up  to  is  fibbing,  my  lad. 
Hence  it  comes — Boxiana,  disgrace  to  thy  page  ! 
Having  floor'd,  by  good  luck,  the  first  swell  of  the  age, 
Having  conquer'd  the  prime  one,  that  mill'd  us  all  round, 
You  kick'd  him,  old  Ben,  as  he  gasp'd  on  the  ground  ! 
Ay — just  at  the  time  to  show  spunk,  if  you  'd  got  any 
Kick'd  him,  and  jaw'd  him,  and  lagg'd  him  to  Botany  ! 
Oh,  shade  of  the  Cheesemonger  !  you,  who,  alas, 
Doubled  up,  by  the  dozen,  those  Mounseers  in  brass, 
On  that  great  day  of  milling,  when  blood  lay  in  lakes, 
When  kings  held  the  bottle,  and  Europe  the  stakes, 
Look  down  upon  Ben-   see  him,  dunghill  all  o'er, 
Insult  the  fall'n  foe,  that  can  harm  him  no  more  ! 
Out,  cowardly  spooney!   again  and  again. 
By  the  fist  of  my  father,  I  blush  for  thee,  Ben  ! 
To  show  the  white  feather  is  many  men's  doom, — 
But  what  of  one  feather?     Ben  shows  a  whole  plume. 


TO  SIR  HUDSON  LOWE. 

NAPOLEON'S  life  at  St.  Helena  was  imde  miserable  by 
a  continued  series  of  petty  annoyances  and  insults.  He 
was  deprived  of  his  title  of  Emperor,  and  was  known  and 
spoken  of  as  "  General  Bonaparte  "  by  all,  except  his  com- 
rades in  exile.  He  was  watched  and  guarded  like  an 
imprisoned  brigand.  His  personal  liberty  was  curtailed 
to  such  an  extent  that  at  no  time,  day  or  night,  was  he 
alone.  His  jailer  knew  his  every  movement,  and  it  was 
with  the  utmost  reluctance  that  even  the  privacy  of  the 
bath  was  allowed  him.  His  correspondence  was  opened 
and  read  by  the  high-minded  English  gentleman  who  had 
him  in  charge,  and  the  requests,  repeatedly  made  by  his 
comrades,  for  better  treatment  for  their  beloved  Emperor. 
were  ignored  in  the  most  insulting  manner.  Sir  Hudson 
Lowe,  the  Governor  of  the  island,  seemed  to  take  especial 
delight  in  attempting  to  humiliate  his  prisoner;  but  the 
haughty  pride  of  Napoleon  would  tolerate  nothing  of 
that  kind,  and  in  the  end  he  refused  to  see,  or  to  have 
any  communication  whatever  with,  the  Governor,  except 
through  the  formal  and  official  channels.  A  squadron 
of  war  vessels  surrounded  the  island,  ami  a  regiment  <>!' 
soldiers  encamped  around  Longwood  ;  no  one  was  allowed 
to  land,  or  to  see  the  illustrious  captive,  without  a  special 
permit  ;  and  yet,  with  all  these  precautions,  fear  was  con- 
stantly expressed  by  the  valiant  Lowe  that  his  charge 

47'y 


480  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

might  escape,  unless  the  utmost  severity  was  exercised 
in  the  prison  discipline  established.  Napoleon  came  to 
hate  his  persecutor,  and  with  good  reason. 

Moore  very  aptly  describes  the  situation  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  : 

TO    SIR   HUDSON    LOWE. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  Sir  Hudson  Lowe, 
(By  name,  and  ah  !  by  nature  so,) 

As  thou  art  fond  of  persecutions, 
Perhaps  thou  'st  read,  or  heard  repeated 
How  Captain  Gulliver  was  treated 

When  thrown  among  the  Lilliputians. 

They  tied  him  down — these  little  men  did — 
And  having  valiantly  ascended 

Upon  the  Mighty  Man's  protuberance, 
They  did  so  strut  ! — upon  my  soul, 
It  must  have  been  extremely  droll 

To  see  their  pigmy  pride's  exuberance, 

And  how  the  doughty  mannikins 
Amused  themselves  with  sticking  pins, 

And  needles  in  the  great  man's  breeches  : 
And  how  some  very  little  things, 
That  pass'd  for  Lords,  on  scaffoldings 

Got  up,  and  worried  him  with  speeches. 

Alas,  alas  !  that  it  should  happen 

To  mighty  men  to  be  caught  napping  ! 

Though  different,  too,  these  persecutions  ; 
For  Gulliver  there  took  the  nap, 
While  here  the  Nap,  oh,  sad  mishap, 

Is  taken  by  the  Lilliputians  ! 


THE  EAGLET  MOURNED. 

WHEN  Dr.  Antommarchi  went  to  St.  Helena  as  Napo- 
leon's medical  attendant,  he  took  with  him  a  number  of 
books  and  other  gifts  for  the  Emperor,  among  which  was 
a  portrait  of  the  King  of  Rome  as  a  little  child.  How 
eagerly  did  the  father  seize  this  precious  gift,  sent  to  him 
by  Eugene,  and  how  lovingly  did  he  gaze  upon  the  pic- 
ture of  his  idolised  son.  This  man  of  iron,  who  had  put 
all  Europe  in  mourning  that  his  own  ambition  might  be 
furthered,  and  who  had  spread  desolation  and  woe  over 
all  the  land  unmoved,  wept  at  the  sight  of  his  son's  pic- 
ture. It  was  for  the  sake  of  perpetuating  his  name  in 
this  son  he  had  disowned  the  wife  he  still  loved,  and  had 
allied  himself  with  a  nation  that  was  to  aid  in  his  own 
undoing.  It  was  through  this  son  he  had  hoped  s<>  much 
for  the  future,  and  now  both  were  prisoners  in  foreign 
lands,  and  the  fate  of  his  son  seemed  even  more  dark  and 
hopeless  than  his  own. 


TIIK    MACLKT 

YKTOK    Hr 

Too  hard  Napoleon's  fate  !   if,  lone, 
No  being  he  had  loved,  no  single  one, 

Less  dark  that  doom  had  been. 
But  with  the  heart  of  might  doth  ever  dwell 


482  A    METRICAL   JUS  TORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  heart  of  love  !  and  in  his  island  cell 
Two  things  there  were,  I  ween. 

Two  things — a  portrait  and  a  map— were  there. 
Here  hung  the  pictured  world,  an  infant  there  ; 
That  framed  his  genius,  this  enshined  his  love. 
And  as  at  eve  he  glanced  round  th'  alcove, 
Where  jailers  watched  his  very  thoughts  to  spy, 
What  mused  he  then — what  dream  of  years  gone  by 
Stirred  'neath  that  discrowned  brow,  and  fired  that 
glistening  eye  ? 

T  was  not  the  steps  of  that  heroic  tale 
That  from  Arcola  marched  to  Montmirail 

On  Glory's  red  degrees, 
Nor  Cairo  pashas'  steel-devouring  steeds, 
Nor  the  tall  shadows  of  the  Pyramids — 

Ah,  't  was  not  always  these  ! 
'T  was  not  the  bursting  shell,  the  iron  sleet, 
The  whirlwind  rush  of  battle  'neath  his  feet, 

Through  twice  ten  years  ago, 
When  at  his  back,  upon  that  sea  of  steel 
Were  launched  the  rustling  banners — there  to  reel 

Like  masts  when  tempests  blow. 
'T  was  not  Madrid,  nor  Kremlin  of  the  Czar, 
Nor  Pharos  on   Old  Egypt's  coast  afar. 
Nor  shrill  rcveillciirs  camp  awakening  sound, 
Nor  bivouac  couch'd  its  starry  fires  around, 
Crested  dragoons,  grim,  veteran  grenadiers, 
Nor  the  red  lancers  'mid  their  wood  of  spears 
Blazing  like  baleful  poppies  'mong  the  golden  ears. 

No  ;    'twas  an  infant  image,  fresh  and  fair, 
\\  ith  rosy  mouth  half  oped,  as  slumbering  there- 
It  lav  beneath  the   smile 


THE  EAGLET  MOURNED.  483 

Of  her  whose  breast,  soft-bending  o'er  its  sleep. 
Lingering  upon  that  little  lip  doth  keep 
One  pending  drop  the  while. 

Then,  his  sad  head  upon  his  hands  inclined. 
He  wept  ;  that  father-heart,  all  unconfined, 

Outpoured  in  love  alone. 

My  blessings  on  thy  clay-cold  head,  poor  child. 
Sole  being  for  whose  sake  his  thoughts  beguile, 

Forgot  the  world's  lost  throne. 


DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON. 

FIRST,  the  faithful  Las  Casas  was  torn  from  the  side  of 
the  Emperor,  cast  into  prison,  and  finally  sent  to  Eng- 
land, because  he  undertook  to  send  a  letter  to  a  friend 
without  its  having  passed  through  the  hands  of  the  Gov- 
ernor ;  then  Doctor  O'Meara  was  recalled,  because  he 
would  not  play  the  part  of  a  contemptible  spy  on  his 
illustrious  patient.  General  Gourgaud  and  Madame 
Montholon  had  also  left  the  island.  There  remained 
only  Bertrand  and  Montholon  to  share  the  weary  days 
yet  to  come  before  death  would  release  their  chief.  For 
six  years  Napoleon  lived  a  life  of  daily  torture.  Broken 
down  in  body,  deprived  of  even  the  ordinary  comforts 
of  life,  forced  to  submit  to  insult  and  calumny,  is  it  a 
wonder  that  he  did  not  bear  it  all  with  the  resignation 
and  dignity  expected  from  so  exalted  a  captive  ?  St. 
Helena  and  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  will  forever  remain  a  blot 
on  the  fame  of  England.  Both  were  unnecessary  cruel- 
ties inflicted  upon  Napoleon,  more  in  the  spirit  of  revenge 
than  to  meet  the  demands  of  justice.  On  the  fifth  of 
May,  1821,  death  closed  the  scene.  On  the  night  of  the 
fourth  occurred  one  of  the  most  terrible  storms  ever 
known  at  St.  Helena.  The  very  elements  seemed  to  be 
in  harmony  with  the  mind  of  the  dying  warrior,  who,  all 
night  through,  fought  again  the  glorious  battles  he  had 

4S4 


DEATH  OF  NAPOLEOX.  485 

won  for  France.  The  army — his  country — Josephine — 
were  the  last  thoughts  that  engaged  his  attention.  As 
the  storm  ceased,  his  mind  grew  calmer,  and  just  at  sun- 
set he  died. 

DEATH    OF    NAPOLEON. 

ISAAC:  MAC  I.KU.AN. 

Wild  was  the  night,  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow  ; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  on  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  bv, 

O          *     ' 

The  few  that  his  stern  heart  cherished  ; 
They  knew  by  his  glazed  and  unearthly  eye 
That  life  had  nearly  perished. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  of  days  when  the  nations  shook. 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken.. 

He  dreamed  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew, 
And  triumphed  the  Frenchman's  "  Eagle  "  ; 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again. 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed, 
And  again  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows. 

At  the  Pyramids,  at   the  mountain. 
Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  ll<>\vs, 

And  bv  the  Italian  fountain; 


486  A    METRICAL    If/STOKY   OF  XAPOLEON. 

On  the  snowy  cliffs,  where  mountain  streams 
Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 

He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 
Ilis  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 

Again  Marengo's  field  was  won. 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle  ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun. 

Made  pale  at  his  cannon's  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 
A  day  that  shall  live  in  story  ; 

In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 
"  And  left  him  alone  with  his  glory." 


THE  DEATH-BED  OF  NAPOLEON. 

So  many  poems  have  been  written  concerning  the  death 
of  Napoleon,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  insert  them 
all  in  a  collection  of  this  kind,  nor  would  it  be  profitable 
to  do  so.  Most  of  these  poems  are  historically  incorrect, 
in  that  they  describe  Napoleon's  death,  apparently  for 
effect,  as  occurring  in  the  very  midst  of  the  awful  storm 
which  took  place  during  the  night  of  the  fourth  ;  when, 
in  fact,  he  died  about  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the 
fifth,  after  a  day  of  nearly  total  unconsciousness,  and 
when  the  storm  of  the  night  before  had  virtually  ceased. 
It  was  during  the  night  of  the  fourth,  while  the  storm 
was  at  its  height,  that  the  dying  Emperor  appeared  in  his 
delirium  to  live  his  life  over  again  :  his  death  was  a  peace- 
ful and  quiet  one,  without  a  word  or  a  sound  to  denote 
any  thought  on  his  part. 

THK    UKATH-BKn    OK    NAI'OI.KON. 

MKS.  \V AKKII  i  i>  AND   Mi;*.   I.K.I-. 

The  wild  and  foaming  wave 

Broke  on  the  island  strand 
Win-re  a  monarch  found  a  living  grave 

\Yith  a  tried  yet  broken  band. 
And  the  ocean  winds  were  high. 

And  the  tempest  walked  abn>ad. 
When  that  eagle  caged  was  called  to  die — 

1  hat  soul  restored  to  (mil. 


488  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

No  woman's  form  was  there, 

An  angel  'mid  the  gloom  ; 
But  war-worn  men,  in  stern  despair, 

Watched  in  that  midnight  room. 
Those  eyes  which  proudly  looked 

On  strife  and  hostile  spears, 
And  shame  and  insult  never  brooked, 

Were  now  all  dim  with  tears. 

But  he  for  whom  they  wept — 

Their  crownless  Emperor — 
His  spirit  still  its  vigils  kept 

O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war. 
Far  from  that  dying  bed, 

From  the  nerveless  heart  and  limb, 
From  the  bitter  tears  around  him  shed, 

And  the  torches  burning  dim  ; 

Far  from  the  foeman's  stings — 

The  isle  in  the  lonely  seas — 
That  spirit  fled  on  her  eagle  wings, 

As  a  bird  on  the  morning  breeze. 
And  he  seemed  in  death  to  stand, 

As  on  many  a  glorious  day, 
With  folded  arms  and  high  command, 

Once  more  a  tctc  d'aruie'c. 

He  heard  the  cannon's  roar — 
'T  was  but  the  thundering  sea  ; 

And  the  trumpet  pealed  on  his  ear  once  more- 
'T  was  the  tempest  sweeping  free  ; 

And  the  crash  of  armies  meeting, 

And  the  wail  of  the  crushed  and  dying — 

'T  was  but  the  surf  on  the  white  sands  beating, 

O 

And  the  eatrlc's  scream  in  flvin<i  ! 


THE  DEA  TH-BED   OF  NAPOLEON.  489 

The  light  of  that  glorious  dream 

Played  o'er  those  features  wan, 
Lighting  the  aspect,  pale  and  dim, 

Of  the  fallen  and  dying  man  ; 
And  from  those  pale  lips  came 

Those  words  of  haughty  sway, 
That  woke  a  nation's  soul  to  flame 

When  he  stood  h  tctc  d  \ 


The  tempest's  wrath  was  done, 

And  the  eagle  sought  her  nest, 
And  the  wraves  lay  calm  in  the  morning  sun, 

As  if  stars  had  kissed  their  rest. 
The  soul  had  passed  away 

On  the  wings  of  the  rushing  storm— 
And  the  sunlight's  first,  rejoicing  ray, 

Gleamed  on  a  marble  form. 

Yet  dauntless  still,  and  full 

Of  a  fixed  and  solemn  might, 
Were  the  features,  wan  and  beautiful, 

And  the  forehead  broad  and  white  ; 
And  the  dream  of  that  dying  heart 

Still  like  a  glory  lay 
On  the  face  of  the  exiled  Bonaparte  — 

No  more  a  Icte  d'  arnite. 


THE  DEAD  NAPOLEON. 

Ox  the  eighth  of  May,  1821,  the  mortal  remains  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  were  consigned  to  earth.  Under  a 
weeping  willow,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  on  the 
dreary  island  of  St.  Helena,  was  the  place  chosen  by  his 
comrades  for  the  grave  of  their  Emperor.  A  simple  stone, 
bearing  the  name  of  "  Napoleon,"  and  giving  the  place 
and  date  of  his  birth  and  death,  and  nothing  else,  had 
been  prepared  by  his  friends  to  mark  the  sacred  spot  ; 
but  the  inhuman  Lowe,  claiming  to  act  under  orders  from 
the  English  Government,  would  permit  of  no  inscription, 
except  the  words,  "  General  Bonaparte."  Rather  than 
submit  to  this  cowardly  insult  offered  the  dead,  a  plain 
stone,  with  no  inscription,  was  erected  over  the  grave  of 
the  world's  conqueror.  With  a  single  exception,  the 
faithful  few  who  had  remained  with  Napoleon  during  his 
exile  left  St.  Helena  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  May. 
One  <>f  their  number,  Sergeant  Hubert,  refused  to  leave 
his  dead  chief,  and  he  remained  for  nineteen  years  to 
guard  the  solitary  tomb.  \Yhen  France  recalled  Napo- 
leon, this  faithful  soldier  followed  his  remains  to  their 
final  resting-place. 

THK    DKAD    NATO  I. EON. 


Helena  !   lone  and  rocky  tomb  ! 
Art  conscious  of  thv  trust  ? 


THE   DEAD   NAPOLEON.  491 

Thy  bosom,  quiet  isle  !   inurns 

An  Emperor — in  dust  ! 
And  dynasty  and  diadem 

Are  with  his  rageless  brow, — 
Adorned  they  him  alone,  on  earth — 

Indeed,  him  onlv,  now  ! 


Xo  empire  which  his  spirit  reared, 

No  sceptre  which  he  won, 
Is  heritage  by  him  bestowed, 

Or  gilds  a  loyal  son. 
Mis  power,  magnificence,  and  pride 

Are  buried  with  his  frame  ; 
Of  all  his  glories,  but  survives 

The  glory  of  his  name  ! 

He  trod  the  Alpine  hills,  and  shook 

His  sceptre  from  their  brow 
O'er  startled  Italy — and  bade 

Her  hundred  cities  bow  ! 
An  unresisted  conqueror 

Trampled  the  Caisars'  halls  ; 
He  gazed  upon  the  hills  ot  Rome, 

And  thundered  at  her  walls  ! 


He  shook  the  giant  Pyramids, 

And  bade  old  Kgypt  kneel  ; 
lie  gave  the  suppliant  his  law. 

The  Syrian  his  steel  ! 
lie  wrote  at  Austerlitx.  i:i  blood- 

I'roud  Austria  subdued  ! 
At  Jena  humbled  Prussia  bowed  — 

That  urn  of  ashes  sued  ! 


492  A   METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

He  smote  the  autocrat,  and  flung 

The  gates  of  Moscow  wide, 
And  revelled  in  her  palaces, 

And  trampled  on  her  pride  ! 
Lo  !  lo  !  her  thousand  spires  are  lit 

To  guide  the  conqueror's  way  ! 
And  Russia's  snows,  like  silver  seas, 

Illuminated  lay  ! 

But  hark  !  his  hour  of  triumph  ends  ! 

Behold  on  Elba's  shore 
The  desolater  of  the  world— 

His  desolation  o'er  ! 
Again  he  girds  that  blade  of  power— 

The  prisoner  is  free! — 
The  shriek  of  startled  Europe  shook 

The  pillared  Pyrenee  ! 

Kings  leapt,  convulsive,  to  the  field — 

To  subjugate  or  die  ; 
From  Europe  unto  Asia's  sands 

\Ycnt  up  the  battle  cry. 
And  Britain  trembled  on  her  tide. 

Displayed  her  broadest  shield  ; 
And  rushing  to  the  fearful  strife, 

The  war  cry  trebly  pealed  ! 

Ay,  but  the  world  in  maddened  might 

Could  grapple  with  the  Brave  ; 
1 1  is  dying  bed  was  Waterloo 

Helena  is  his  grave. 
'T  is  well — in  Europe's  reeking  soil 

That  bosom  could  not  sleep  ; 
That  giant  spirit's  prison  house 

Should  be  the  mighty  deep  ! 


THE  DEAD  NAPOLEON.  493 

Could  Austerlitz  or  Jena  hold 

Their  hero's  trodden  dust  ? 
Their  swelling  brains  would  bleed  afresh— 

Their  throbbing  bosoms  burst ! 
Ay,  fitting  grave,  that  lonely  isle, 

Where  but  the  pilgrims  tread, 
And  not  the  careless  steps  of  all 

Make  echoes  o'er  his  head. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

TlIE  story  is  told  that,  soon  after  the  death  of  Napo, 
Icon,  a  party  of  ladies,  on  their  way  from  India  to  England, 
landed  at  St.  Helena,  and  visited  the  tomb  of  the  Emperor. 
After  they  had  viewed  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead,  and 
as  they  were  about  to  seat  themselves  on  the  grass,  in 
order  to  enjoy  their  noon-day  lunch,  one  of  their  number 
discovered  a  spring  near  by,  from  which  she  dre\v  enough 
water  to  furnish  each  of  the  party  a  drink.  This  spring, 
they  were  told,  had  been  a  great  favourite  of  Napoleon's; 
and,  as  they  drank  the  cold,  sparkling  beverage,  one  of 
them  soberly  and  seriously  observed  :  "  I  low  happy  Bona- 
parte must  have  been  to  have  had  such  delicious  water  to 
drink  !  "  The  others  smiled  at  the  philosophy  of  their 
friend,  which  enabled  her  to  find  in  a  glass  of  pure  water 
an  antidote  against  the  loss  of  health,  liberty,  power,  and 
domestic  affection.  As  they  went  away,  the  ladies  filled 
their  bottles,  with  the  water,  and  carried  it  to  England  as 
a  souvenir  of  their  visit  to  the  tomb  of  the  great  Napoleon. 

This  incident  was  the  occasion  for  the  following  lines 
from  a  young  provincial  poet,  Mr.  C.  A.  Hurlbert  of 
Shrewsbury  : 

THE    (iRAYE    OF    NAPOLEON. 

C.    A.     IlrKI.l'.KRT. 

The  tempest  is  hush'd  and  the  Eagle  is  dead  ; 

His  thunderbolts  fly,  and  his  wings  clap  no  more: 

494 


THE    GRATE    OF  NAPOLEOX.  495 

The  plumes  that  to  war  and  to  victory  led, 
Forever  lie  folded  on  Helena's  shore. 

But  where  is  the  tomb  that  should  mark  the  repose 
Of  that  bright-flaming  Comet  on  History's  pages  ? 

Or  the  shrine  which   the  bay  and  the   laurel  crown  strews 
Where  the  song  echoes  loudly — the  Wonder  of  ages? 

Beneath  the  deep  shade  of  a  mute  willow  only, 
O'er  his  still  honoured  relic's  pale  History  weeps; 

And  a  titleless  stone,  midst  its  mountains  so  lonely. 
Alone  marks  the  spot  where  Napoleon  sleeps. 

A  few  heartfelt  tears  at  his  burial  fell, 

But  no  orphan  or  parent  or  widow  was  there  ; 

And  Friendship  alone  op'd  its  tear  crystal  well, 
To  water  the  willows  which  mourn  for  him  there. 

But  tears  do  not  speak  all  the  anguish  of  grief — 

'T  is  deeper  when  pain  stops  the  springs  of  the  eye  ; 

When  the  heart  is  confined,  and  deprived  of  relief 
In  the  sweet  balm  of  nature,  the  tear  or  the  sigh. 

And  the  soldier  still  heaves  in  his  soul  that  deep  sigh, 
When  he  thinks  of  His  glory — remembers  His  war^  : 

And  with  mourning  of  sorrow,  which  never  can  die. 
Still  honours  His  name  and  is  proud  of  his  scars. 

Immortal  with  man  when  mausoleums  are  rotten, 
While  Genius  is  honoured  and  conquests  enhance. 

He  shall  need  not  the  praise  of  the  early  forgotten- 
His  fame  is  impressed  on  the  bosom  of  France  ! 

Barren  Isle!   thou  dost  hold  in  thy  sea-beaten  bosom 
His  ashes — be  proud  of  the  treasure  that  's  there  : 

For  Pilgrims  for  ages  shall  scatter  their  blossom. 

Till  thv  deserts  smile  lovelv.  thv  rocks  become  fair. 


NAPOLEON. 

TlIK  following  stanzas  are  a  translation  of  part  of  a 
noble  ode,  written  for  the  fifth  of  May,  the  anniversary 
of  Napoleon's  death,  by  Manzoni,  the  celebrated  Italian 

poet  and  novelist  : 

The  stormy  joy,  the  trembling  hope, 
That  wait  on  mightiest  enterprise  ; 
The  panting  heart  of  one  whose  scope 

Was  empire,  and  who  gained  the  prize 
And  grasped  a  crown  of  which  it  seemed 
Scarce  less  than  madness  to  have  dreamed — 
All  these  were  his  ;  glory  that  shone 

The  brighter  for  its  perils  past  ; 
The  rout,  the  victory,  the  throne, 

The  gloom  of  banishment  at  last- 
Twice  in  the  very  dust  abased, 
And  twice  on  fortune's  altar  raised. 

His  name  was  heard  ;   and  mute  with  fear 

Two  warring  centuries  stood  by, 
Submissive  from  his  mouth  to  hear 

The  sentence  of  their  destiny  ; 
While  he  bade  silence  be,  and  sate 
Between  them,  arbiter  of   fate. 

lie  passed,  and  on  this  barren  rock 
Inactive  closed  his  proud  career, 
A  mark  for  envy's  rudest  shock  ; 
For  pity's  warmest,  purest  tear; 
496 


NAPOLEON.  497 

For  hatred's  unextinguishcd  fire, 
And  love  that  lives  when  all  expire. 

As  on  the  drowning  seaman's  head 

The  wave  comes  thundering  from  on  high — 
The  wave  to  which,  afar  displayed, 

The  wretch  had  turned  his  straining  eye, 
And  gazed  along  the  gloomy  main 
For  some  far  sail,  but  gazed  in  vain — 
So  on  his  soul  came  back  the  wave 

Of  melancholy  memory. 
1  low  oft  hath  he  essayed  to  grave 

His  image  for  posterity, 
Till  o'er  th'  eternal  chronicle 
The  weary  hand  desponding  fell. 

How  oft,  what  time  the  listless  day 

Hath  died,  and  in  the  lonely  flood 
The  Indian  sun  hath  quenched  his  ray, 

With  folded  arms  the  hero  stood  ; 
While  dreams  of  days  no  more  to  be 
Throng  back  into  his  memory. 

He  sees  his  moving  tents  again, 

The  leaguered  walls  around  him  lie, 
The  squadrons  gleaming  o'er  the  plain, 

The  ocean  wave  of  cavalry, 
The  rapid  order  promptly  made, 
And  with  the  speed  of  thought  obeyed. 

Alas  !  beneath  its  punishment. 

Perchance,  the  wearied  soul  had  drooped. 
Despairing  ;   but  a  spirit  sent 

From  heaven  to  raise  the  wretched  stooped 
And  bore  him  where  diviner  air 
Breathes  balm  and  comfort  to  despair. 


NAPOLEON'S  GRAVE. 

UNDER  the  willow  at  St.  Helena  Napoleon  slept,  wait- 
ing the  time  when  France  would  arise  in  her  might,  and 
demand  his  second  return.  It  was  desertion  and  treach- 
ery that  accomplished  his  downfall.  It  was  ingratitude 
and  cowardice  that  consigned  him  to  a  living  tomb,  lie 
who  had  been  a  generous  victor  to  the  many  monarch* 
he  had  vanquished  on  the  field  of  battle,  in  that  he  per- 
mitted them  to  retain  their  crowns,  was,  during  his  dreary 
exile,  and  at  his  death,  without  a  friend  among  them  all. 
Not  one  raised  a  hand  to  lessen  the  anguish  of  his  soul 
during  those  last  awful  days.  Not  one  but  rejoiced  when 
they  knew  him  dead.  The  history  of  Napoleon's  exile 
at  St.  Helena  is  an  especial  shame  to  England  ;  but  Prus- 
sia, Austria,  and  Russia  cannot  escape  censure.  They 
could  have  insisted  upon  a  different  course  of  treatment 
for  their  old  foe  ;  the}"  could  have  demanded,  at  least,  an 
honourable  exile  for  the  man  who  had  spared  them  in  his 
days  of  power;  the  man  who  had  voluntarily  given  him- 
self up,  expecting  justice,  but  not  torture.  St.  Helena, 
as  the  tomb  of  Napoleon,  became  a  place  of  interest  to 
the  whole  world,  and  visitors  went  there  to  get  but  a 
glimpse  of  the  unmarked  grave  of  the  man  who  so  lately 
had  held  the  fate  of  Europe  within  the  hollow  of  his 

498 


NA  POL  EON'S   GKA  I  'A.  499 

hands.  Poems  without  number  were  written,  having  for 
their  subject  the  illustrious  dead.  The  following  we  think 
one  of  the  best  : 

NAPOLEON'S  GKAVK. 

RICHARD   HKNKY  WII.UK. 

Faint  and  sad  was  the  moonbeam's  smile. 

Sullen  the  moan  of  the  dying  wave. 
Hoarse  the  wind  in  St.  Helen's  isle, 

As  I  stood  by  the  side  of  Napoleon's  grave. 

And  is  it  here  that  the  hero  lies, 

Whose  name  has  shaken  the  earth  with  dread  ? 
And  is  this  all  that  the  earth  supplies, — 

A  stone  his  pillow,  the  turf  his  bed  ? 

Is  such  the  moral  of  human  life  ? 

Are  these  the  limits  of  glory's  reign? 
Have  oceans  of  blood,  and  an  age  of  strife, 

And  a  thousand  battles  been  all  in  vain  ? 

Is  nothing  left  of  his  victories  now 

Hut  legions  broken,  a  sword  in  rust, 
A  crown  that  cumbers  a  dotard's  brow, 

A  name  and  a  requiem,  dust  to  dust  .•* 

Of  all  the  chieftains  whose  thrones  lie  rear'd, 

Was  there  none  that  kindness  or  faith  c<  mid  bind  5 

Of  all  the  monarchs  whose  crowns  he  spared. 
Had  none  one  spark  ot  his  Roman  mind  J 

Did  Prussia  cast  no  repentant  glance, 
I)id  Austria  shed  no  remorseful  tear. 

When  England's  truth,  and  thine  honour,  France. 
And  thy  friendship,  Russia,  were  blasted  here  ' 


500  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

No  holy  leagues  like  the  heathen  heaven 
Ungodlikc  shrunk  from  the  giant's  shock  ; 

o  o 

And  glorious  Titai],  the  unforgiven, 

Was  dooni'd  to  his  vulture  and  chains  and  rock. 

And  who  were  the  gods  that  decreed  thy  doom? 

A  German  Caesar,  a  Prussian  sage, 
The  dandy  prince  of  a  counting-room, 

And  a  Russian  Greek  of  earth's  darkest  age. 

Men  call'd  thee  Despot,  and  call'd  thee  true  ; 

But  the  laurel  was  earn'd  that  bound  thy  brow  : 
And  of  all  who  wore  it,  alas!  how  few 

Were  freer  from  treason  and  guilt  than  thou  ! 

Shame  to  thee,  Gaul,  and  thy  faithless  horde  ! 

Where  was  the  oath  which  thy  soldiers  swore? 
Fraud  still  lurks  in  the  gown,  but  the  sword 

Was  never  so  false  to  its  trust  before. 

Where  was  thy  veterans'  boast  that  day, 

"  The  Old  Guard  dies,  but  it  never  yields  "? 

Oh,  for  one  heart  like  the  brave  Dessaix, 

One  phalanx  like  those  of  thine  early  fields  ! 

Hut,  no,  no,  no  !      It  was  Freedom's  charm 
Gave  them  the  courage  of  more  than  men  ; 

You  broke  the  spell  that  twice  nerved  each  arm, 
Though  you  were  invincible  only  then. 

Yet  St.  Jean  was  a  deep,  not  a  deadly  blow  ; 

(  )ne  struggle,  and  France  all  her  faults  repairs  ; 
Hut  the  wild  Fayctte  and  the  stern  Carnot 

Are  duprs,  and  ruin  thy  fate  and  theirs! 


NAPOLEON  II.,  DUKE  nv  KEK  HSTAUI. 
From  an  engraving  by  Ramus,  after  l'hili|>|>oteaux. 

1'ari--  (no  date). 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF 
REICHSTADT. 

ON  the  twenty-second  of  July,  1832,  Napoleon's  son,  the 
Duke  of  Reichstadt,  died,  a  prisoner,  virtually,  in  the 
hands  of  the  Austrian  Government.  Born  King  of  Rome 
and  heir  to  the  mightiest  empire  on  earth,  he  died  an 
Austrian  Prince;  an  exile,  stripped  of  the  title  that  was 
his  by  birth,  and  bearing  that  of  a  foreign  country.  With 
his  death  the  house  of  Napoleon,  in  a  direct  line,  ceased 
to  exist.  When  Napoleon  was  sent  to  Elba  the  Empress 
Marie  Louise  took  the  young  King  of  Rome  and  went  to 
the  home  of  her  father,  the  Emperor  of  Austria.  He 
gave  her  Schonbrunn  for  a  residence,  and,  by  a  treaty 
among  the  Allies,  she  was  made  Duchess  of  Parma  for 
life.  Hardly  had  she  quitted  France  ere  her  love  for 
Napoleon,  if  ever  she  had  such  a  feeling,  was  transferred 
to  the  Count  de  Neipperg,  a  general  in  the  service  of 
Francis  II.,  and  when  Xapoleon  died,  she  married  this 
Austrian.  The  Count  and  her  children  by  him  were 
always  first  in  her  affections.  Napoleon  was  forgotten, 
and  his  son,  deserted  by  his  mother,  was  left  to  the  care 
of  his  grandfather,  who,  fortunately,  had  a  real  love  for 
the  young  Prince.  Brought  up  and  educated  as  an  Aus- 
trian subject,  the  Duke  of  Kcichstadt  entered  the  army 


5O2  -•/    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

of  that  nation  as  soon  as  his  age  would  permit.  But  an 
Austrian  education  and  an  Austrian  uniform  never  for  a 
moment  effaced  from  the  mind  of  the  Duke  the  fact  that 
his  father  had  been  Emperor  of  France,  and  that  he  was 
his  heir.  A  true  Frenchman  he  lived,  and  a  loyal  son  he 
died.  When  he  was  at  the  point  of  death  he  said,  sadly, 
"  My  birth  and  my  death — that  is  all  my  history."  But 
what  an  eventful  history  it  was  !  At  his  birth,  Paris  and 
all  France  went  wild  with  enthusiasm.  The  twenty-second 
roar  of  the  gun,  which  told  the  people  of  Paris  that  the 
Empress  had  given  Napoleon  a  son  instead  of  a  daughter, 
was  the  occasion  for  unbounded  rejoicing.  Never  was 
babe  born  with  brighter  prospects  for  a  brilliant  future, 
and  yet  four  years  were  to  cover  his  reign  as  King  of 
Rome  ;  Napoleon  II.  he  was  never  to  be  ;  as  Duke  of  Reich- 
stadt,  an  Austrian  Prince,  he  was  to  live  and  die.  He 
was  not  at  Paris  to  greet  his  father  upon  his  return  from 
Elba  ;  nor,  dead,  was  he  allowed  to  sleep  with  him  upon 
his  return  from  St.  Helena.  The  fate  of  the  son  was  truly 
as  sad  as  that  of  the  father. 


•)N    THE    UK  ATI  I    OF    TIIK    UL'KK    OF     KKICIISTADT 


1  leir  of  that  name 

Which  shook  with  sudden  terror  the  far  earth, 
Chiltl  of  strange  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth, 

When  kings  and  princes  round  thy  cradle  came, 
And  gave  their  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thine  hand, 
Thine  heritage  the  >poils  of   many  a  land  ! 


ON  THE  DEA  Til  OF  THE  DUKE  O/-'  REICH STAD  T.      503 

Ho\v  were  the  schemes 
Of  human  foresight  baffled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

What  glorious  visions  filled  thy  father's  dreams 
When  first  he  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face. 
And  deemed  himself  the  Rodolph  of  his  race! 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 

Beheld  the  light  of  day,  when  thou  wert  bound 
With  power's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  young  brow  crowned 

With  Rome's  imperial  diadem — the  pri/.e 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won. 
To  deck  the  pillow  of   his  cradled  son. 

Vet  where  is  now 

The  sword  that  flashed  as  with  a  meteor  light, 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight, 

Bidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow  ' 
Alas!   when  foiled  on  his  last  battle  plain, 
Its  shattered  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain  ! 

Far  worse  tJiv  fate 

Than  that  which  doomed  him  to  the  barren  rock  ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was   felt  the  shock" 

When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still   acknowledged  power 
Could  cheer  him  e'en  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

Hut  thou,  poor  boy  ! 

Iladst  no  such  dreams  to  che.it  the   lagging  hours; 
Thy    chains    still     galled,    'ho'     wreathed     with      tairest 

flowers  ; 

Thou  hadst  no  images  of  by-gone  joy. 
No  vision  of   anticipated  fame. 
To  bear  thin.-  through  a  lite-  of  >loth  and  --liame. 


504  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  where  was  she 

Whose  proudest  title  was  Napoleon's  wife  ? 
She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watched,  thy  life, 

Trebling  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee, 
Despoiled  heir  of  Empire  ?  On  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  head  repose  in  its  unrest? 

No  !  round  her  heart 

Children  of  humbler,  happier  lineage  twined  ; 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  mind 
Of  pageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  part ; 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doom 
Cared  little  for  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 

Child  of  Ambition's  martyr,  life  had  been 
To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt  and  dread  and  suffering  at  the  best  ; 
For  thou  wert  one  whose  path,  in  these  dark  times, 
Would  lead  to  sorrows — it  may  be  to  crimes. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 

The  idle  sword  has  worn  its  sheath  away  ; 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay  ; 

And  they  who  with  vain  tyranny  comprest 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear, 
And  fling  Ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier ! 


THE  BRONZE  STATUE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Ix  1830,  when  the  French  nation  drove  the  Bourbons 
from  the  throne,  and  placed  the  crown  upon  the  head  of 
Louis  Philippe,  the  "Citizen  King,"  a  petition  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  requesting  that  the 
remains  of  Napoleon  might  be  demanded  of  the  British 
government  and  restored  to  France.  From  that  time 
until  the  demand  was  actually  made,  and  acquiesced  in  by 
England,  there  was  no  cessation  of  Napoleonic  enthusiasm. 

In  1831  a  national  ordinance  was  passed,  decreeing  that 
the  statue  of  Napoleon  which  had  adorned  the  Column 
Vendome,  and  which  the  Allies  had  torn  down,  and  in 
derision  dragged  in  the  mud  of  the  streets,  should  be  re- 
placed. In  1833,  in  accordance  with  that  decree.  "Na- 
poleon in  Bronze"  was  again  at  the  top  of  that  column 
erected  in  commemoration  of  the  gallant  deeds  of  the 
Grand  .Army. 

Barbier  did  not  echo  the  voice  of  the  people  in  the 
following  lines.  lie  spoke  as  a  hater  of  the  man  who 
made  France  what  she  is  to-day;  of  the  man  who.  with 
all  his  faults,  laboured  onlv  for  his  country,  and  in  order 
that  she  might  rise  among  the  greatest  nations  ot  the 
world  and  stand  their  equal.  France  to-day  proves  Bar- 


506  A    METKICAI.   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEO.V. 

bier  wrong  and  Napoleon  right.  The  Bourbons  are  gone 
forever,  and  France,  a  glorious  republic,  is  but  reaping 
what  her  greatest  leader  sowed  years  ago. 

THE  BRONZE  STATUE  OK  NAPOLEON. 

AucrsTK  BARHIEK. 

Come,  stoker,  come,  more  coal,  more  fuel,  heap 

Iron  and  copper  at  our  need  ! 
Come,  your  broad  shovel  and  your  long  arms  steep, 

Old  Vulcan,  in  the  forge  you  feed  ! 
To  your  wide  furnace  be  full  portion  thrown  ; 

To  bid  her  sluggish  teeth  to  grind, 
Tear,  and   devour  the  weight  which  she  doth  own, 

A  fire  palace  she  must  find. 
'T  is  well,  't  is  here  !  the  flame,  wide,  wild,  intense, 

Unsparing,  and  blood-coloured,  flung 
From  the  vault  down,  where  the  assaults  commence 

\Yith  lingot  up  to  lingot  clung, 
And  bounds  and  howlings  of  delirium  born  ; 

Lead,  copper,  iron,  mingled  well, 
All  twisting,  lengthening,  and   embraced,  and   torn 

And  tortured,  like  the  damned  in  hell! 
The  work  is  done  !  the  spent  flame  burns  no  more  : 

The  furnace  fires  smoke  and  die  ; 
The  iron  flood  boils  over.      Ope  the  door, 

And  let  the  haughty  one  pass  by  ! 
Roar,  mighty  river,  rush  upon  your  course! 

A  bound,  and  from  your  dwelling  past 
Dash  forward,  like  a  torrent  from  its  source, 

A  flame  from  the  volcano  cast  ! 
'I  o  gulp  your  lava-waves  earth's  jaws  extend, 

Your  fury  in  one  mass  fling  forth  ! 
In  your  steel  mould,  O  Bron/e,  a  slave  descend, 

An  emperor  return  to  earth  ! 


THE   BRONZE   STATUE   OF  XATOLEOX.  507 

Again  Napoleon, — 't  is  his  form  appears  ! 

Hard  soldier  in  unending  quarrel, 
Who  cost  so  much  of  insult,  blood,  and  tears, 

For  only  a  few  boughs  of  laurel  ! 

For  mourning  I'" ranee  it  \vas  a  day  of  grief 

When,  down  from  its  high  station  flung, 
His  mighty  statue,  like  some  shameful  thief, 

In  coils  of  a  vile  rope  was  hung; 
When  we  beheld  at  the  grand  column's  base. 

And  o'er  a  shrieking  cable  bowed, 
The  stranger's  strength  that  might}-  bron/e  displace 

To  hurrahs  of  a  foreign  crowd  ; 
When,  forced  by  thousand  arms,  head-foremost  thrown. 

The  proud  mass  cast  in  monarch  mould 
Made  sudden  fall,  and  on  the  hard,  cold  stone 

Its  iron  carcass  sternly  rolled. 
The  Hun,  the  stupid  Hun,  with  soiled,  rank  skin, 

Ignoble  fury  in  his  glance, 
The  Emperor's  form,  the  kennel's  filth  within, 

Drew  after  him,  in  face  of   France  ! 
On  those  within  whose  bosoms  hearts  hold  reign, 

That  hour  like  remorse  must  weigh 
On  each  French  brow  ;    'tis  the  eternal  stain. 

Which  only  death  can  wash  away  ! 
I  saw,  where  palace  walls  gave  shade  and  ease, 

The  waggons  of  the  foreign  force  ; 
I  saw  them  strip  the  bark  which  clothed  our  trees, 

To  cast  it  to  their  hungry  horse. 
I  saw  the  Northman,  with  his  savage  lip. 

Bruising  our  flesh  till  black  with  gore, 
Our  bread  devour  ;   on   our  nostrils  sip 

The  air  which  was  our  own  before! 
In  the  abasement  and  the  pain,  the  weight 

<  )f  outrages  no  word-;  make  known. 


508  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

I  charged  only  one  being  with  my  hate  : 

Be  thou  accursed,  Napoleon  ! 
O  lank-haired  Corsican,  your  France  was  fair 

In  the  full  sun  of  Messidor  ! 
She  was  a  tameless  and  a  rebel  mare, 

Nor  steel  bit  nor  gold  rein  she  bore  ; 
Wild    steed    with    rustic    flank  ;    yet,    while    she 
trod, 

Reeking  with  blood  of  royalty, 
But  proud  with  strong  foot  striking  the  old  sod, 

At  last,  and  for  the  first  time,  free, 
Never  a  hand,  her  virgin  form  passed  o'er, 

Left  blemish  nor  affront  essayed  ; 
And  never  her  broad  sides  the  saddle  bore, 

Nor  harness  by  the  stranger  made. 
A  noble  vagrant,  with  coat  smooth  and  bright, 

And  nostril  red,  and  action  proud, 
As  high  she  reared,  she  did  the  world  affright 

With  neighings  which  rang  long  and  loud. 
You  came  ;   her  mighty  loins,  her  paces  scanned, 

Pliant  and  eager  for  the  track  ; 
Hot  Centaur,  twisting  in  her  mane  your  hand, 

You  sprang  all  booted  to  her  back. 
Then,  as  she  loved  the  war's  exciting  sound, 

The  smell  of  powder  and  the  drum, 
You  gave  her  earth  for  exercising  ground, 

Bade  battles  as  her  pastime  come  ! 
Then,  no  repose  for  her;  no  nights,  no  sleep  ! 

The  air  and  toil  forcvermore  ! 
And  human  forms  like  unto  sand  crushed  deep. 

And  blood  which  rose  her  chest  before  ! 
Through  fifteen  years  her  hard   hoofs'  rapid  course 

So  ground  the  generations, 
And  she  passed,  smoking  in  her  speed  and  force, 

Over  the  breast  of  nations; 


THE  BRONZE   STATUE   OF  NAPOLEON.  509 

Till,  tired  in   ne'er  earned  goal  to  place  vain  trust, 

To  tread  a  path  ne'er  left  behind, 
To  knead  the  universe  and  like  a  dust 

To  uplift  scattered  human  kind, 
Feebly  and  worn,  and  gasping  as  she  strode, 

Stumbling  each  step  of  her  career. 
She  craved  for  rest  the  Corsican  who  rode. 

But,  torturer,  you  would  not  hear! 
You  pressed  her  harder  with  your  nervous  thigh, 

You  tightened   more  the  goatling  bit. 
Choked  in  her  foaming  mouth  her  frantic  cry, 

And  brake  her  teeth  in  fury-fit. 
She  rose,  but  the  strife  came.      From  farther  fall 

Saved  not  the  curb  she  could  not  know  ; 
She  went  down,  pillowed  on  the  cannon-ball, 

And  thou  wert  broken  by  the  blow  ! 

Now  born  again,  from  depths  where  thou  wert  hurled, 

A  radiant  eagle  dost  thou  rise; 
Winging  thy  flight  again  to  rule  the  world, 

Thine  image  reascends  the  skies. 
No  longer  now  the  robber  of  a  crown, — 

The  insolent  usurper,-— he, 
With  cushions  of  a  throne,  unpitying.  down 

Who  pressed  the  throat  of  Liberty, — 
Old  slave  of  the  Alliance,  sad  and  lone, 

Who  died  upon  a  sombre  rock, 
And  France's  image  until  death  dragged  on 

For  chain,  beneath  the  stranger's  stroke, — 
Napoleon  stands,  unsullied  by  a  stain  ! 

Thanks  to  the  flatterer's  tuneful  race, 
The  lying  poets  who  ring  praises  vain, 

lias  Cajsar  'mong  the  gods  found  place! 
II is  image  to  the  city  walls  gives  li;.;ht  ; 

His  name  has  made  the  citv's  hum. 


5IO  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Still  sounded  ceaselessly,  as  through  the  flight 

It  echoed  farther  than  the  drum. 
From  the  high  suburbs,  where  the  people  crowd, 

Doth  Paris,  an  old  pilgrim  now, 
Each  day  descend  to  greet  the  pillar  proud. 

And  humble  there  his  monarch  brow  ; 
The  arms  encumbered  with  a  mortal  wreath, 

With  flowers  for  that  bronze's  pall. 
(No  mothers  look  on,  as  they  pass  beneath, — 

It  grew,  beneath  their  tears,  so  tall  !) 
In  working-vest,  in  drunkenness  of  soul, 

Unto  the  fife's  and  trumpet's  tone, 
Doth  joyous  Paris  dance  the  Carmagnole 

Around  the  great  Napoleon. 

Thus,  gentle  monarchs,  pass  unnoted  on  ! 

Mild  pastors  of  mankind,  away! 
Sages,  depart,  as  common  brows  have  gone, 

Devoid  of  the  immortal  ray  ! 
For  vainly  you  make  light  the  people's  chain  ; 

And  vainly,  like  a  calm  flock,  come 
On  your  own  footsteps,  without  sweat  or  pain, 

The  people,  treading  towards  their  tomb. 
Soon  as  your  star  doth  to  its  setting  glide, 

And  its  last  lustre  shall  be  given 
By  your  quenched  name,  upon  the  popular  tide 

Scarce  a  faint  furrow  shall  be  riven. 
Pass,  pass  ye  on  !   For  you  no  statue  high  ! 

Your  names  shall  vanish  from  the   horde  : 
Their  memory  is  for  those  who  lead  to  die 

Beneath  the  cannon  and  the  sword  ; 
'1  heir  love  for  him  who  on  the  humid  field 

By  thousands  lays  to  rot  their  bones  ; 
!•  or  him  who  bids  them  pyramids  to  build. 

And  bear  upon  their  backs  the1  stones  ! 


THE     DISIXTERMENT. 

"  IT  is  my  wish  that  my  ashes  may  repose  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  in  the  midst  of  the  French  people  whom  I 
have  loved  so  well."  The  time  had  come  when  Napoleon 
was  about  to  have  his  wish  fulfilled.  The  people  of 
France,  who  had  so  shamefully  deserted  their  chief  in 
his  hoar  of  greatest  need,  were  about  to  make  amends. 
On  the  fifth  of  May,  1840,  the  anniversary  of  the  great 
Emperor's  death,  France  formally  demanded  of  England 
the  ashes  of  her  beloved  dead.  England,  officially  recog- 
nising Napoleon's  title  as  Emperor,  and  no  longer  speak- 
ing of  him  in  derision  as  "  General  Bonaparte,"  at  once 
granted  the  request.  Thus,  though  dead,  he  had,  at  last, 
gained  the  victory  over  his  bitterest  foe.  Immediately, 
t\vo  war  vessels  were  prepared  to  carry  out  the  sacred 
duty  of  bringing  home  the  body  of  the  "  Emperor  Na- 
poleon," and  with  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  a  son  of  the 
King,  in  command,  accompanied  by  the  younger  Las 
Casas,  Gourgaiid,  and  Bertram!,  the  expedition  set  out 
for  St.  Helena.  On  the  eighth  of  October  the  two  vessels 
dropped  anchor  in  the  harbour  of  that  island.  Every- 
thing being  prepared  for  the  important  operation,  at  half- 
past  t\velve  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  fifteenth  of 
October,  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  arrival  of 
Napoleon  at  St.  Helena,  the  first  blow  was  struck  which 
was  to  open  the  grave  and  give  liberty  to  the  hero,  who 

^  1 1 


512  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

had  slept  there  so  long,  in  order  that  his  dying  wish 
might  prevail — that  his  ashes  might  repose  in  the  midst 
of  the  people  he  loved  so  well.  After  nine  hours  of  un- 
interrupted labour  the  work  of  exhumation  was  accom- 
plished, and  the  coffin  containing  the  remains  of  the 
great  warrior  was  removed  from  its  tomb,  and  placed 
under  a  tent  erected  near  by  for  its  reception.  Here  the 
different  enclosures  were  opened  and  the  body  of  the 
Emperor  exposed  to  view.  How  great  the  surprise  and 
astonishment  of  his  old  comrades  when  they  looked  and 
beheld  their  Emperor  lying  before  them  as  they  had 
beheld  him,  as  they  supposed,  for  the  last  time,  nineteen 
years  before !  The  body  was  perfectly  preserved,  and 
the  features  so  life-like  and  natural  that  one  would  sup- 
pose it  was  the  first  instead  of  the  second  funeral  that 
was  taking  place.  After  the  body  had  been  identified, 
the  coffin  was  again  closed,  and  the  ceremonies  continued, 
leading  up  to  and  including  the  surrender  of  the  remains 
of  the  Emperor  by  the  Governor  of  the  island,  in  the 
name  of  the  British  Government,  to  France.  From  that 
moment  the  same  honours  which  the  Emperor  had  re- 
ceived while  living  were  paid  to  his  mortal  remains.  On 
the  eighteenth  of  October,  with  their  precious  charge 
safely  on  board,  the  French  vessels  left  St.  Helena. 

THE     DISIXTERMENT. 

BARTHOLOMEW  SIMMONS. 

Lost  Lord  of  Song!  who  grandly  gave 
Thy  matchless  timbrel  for  the  spear, 

And.  by  old  Hellas'  hallow'd  wave 
Died  at  the  feet  of   Freedom,  hear! 


THE   DISINTRRMENT.  513 

Hear  from  thy  lone  and  lonely  tomb, 

Where  'mid  thy  own  "  inviolate  isle," 
Beneath  no  minster's  marble  gloom, 

No  banner's  golden  smile, 
Far  from  the  swarming  city's  crowd, 
Thy  glory  round  thee  for  a  shroud, 
Thou  slcep'st,  the  pious  rustic's  tread 
The  only  echo  o'er  thy  bed, 
Save,  few  and  faint,  when  o'er  the  foam 
The  Pilgrims  of  thy  genius  come, 
From  distant  earth,  with  tears  of  praise, 
The  homage  of  their  hearts  to  raise, 
And  curse  the  country's  very  name, 

Unworthy  of  thy  sacred  dust, 
That  draws  such  lustre  from  thy  fame, 

That  heaps  such  outrage  on  thy  bust  ! 
Wake  from  the  dead,  and  lift   thy  brow 
With  the  same  scornful  beauty  now 
As  when  beneath  thy  shafts  of  pride 
Envenomed  Cant  —  the  Python — died  ! 
Prophet  no  less  than  bard,  behold 
Matured  the  eventful  moment,  told 
In  those  divine  predictive  words, 
Pour'd  to  thy  lyre's  transcendant  chords: 
"  If  e'er  his  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold-- 
But     no,    their     embers     soon     shall     burst    their 

mould. 

France  shall  feel  the  want 
Of  this  last  consolation,  though  but  scant 
Her  honour!      Fame  and  faith  demand  his  bones. 
To  pile  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones 
If,  then,  from  thy  neglected  bier, 
One  humblest  follower  thou  canst  hear. 
O  Mighty  Master!    rise  and  flee, 

Swift  as  some  meteor  bold  and  bright, 


514  A    METRICAL  HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

One  fragile  cloud  attending  thee, 

Across  the  dusky  tracks  of  night, 
To  where  the  sunset's  latest  radiance  shone 
O'er  Afric's  sea  interminably  lone. 
Below  that  broad  unbroken  sea 

Long  since  the  sultry  sun  has  dropp'd, 
And  now  in   dread  solemnity, 

As  though  its  course  Creation  stopp'd 
One  wondrous  hour  to  watch  the  birth 
Of  deeds  portentous  unto  earth  ; 
The  moonless  midnight  far  and  wide 

Solidly  black  flings  over  all 
That  giant  waste  of  waveless  tide 

Her  melancholy  pall, 
Whose  folds  in  thickest  gloom  unfurl'd. 

Each  ray  of  heaven's  high  face  debar. 
Save,  on  the  margin  of  the  world 

Where  leans  yon  solitary  star, 
Large,  radiant,  restless,  tingling  with  far  smile 
The  jagged  cliffs  of  a  green  barren  isle. 


Hark  !   o'er  the  waves  distinctly  swell 

Twelve  slow  vibrations  of  a  bell  ! 

And  out  upon  the  silent  ear 

At  once  ring  bold  and  sharply  clear, 

With  shock  more  startling  than  if  thunder 

Had  split  the  slumbering  earth  asunder. 

And  iron  sounds  of  crow  and  bar; 

Ye  scarce  may  know  whence  they  come, 
Whether  from  island  or  from  star, 

Both  lie  so  hush'd  and  dumb! 
On,  swift  and  deep,  those  echoes  sweep, 
Shaking  long-buried  kings   from  sleep. 
Up,  up,  ye  spectred   jailers!   ho  ! 

Your  granite  heaped  his  head  in  vain  ; 


THE   DI  SIN  TERM  EXT. 

The  very  grave  gives  back  your  foe — 

Dead  Caesar  wakes  again  ! 
The  nations,  with  a  voice  as  dread 

As  that  which  once  in  Bethany 
Burst  to  the  regions  of  the  dead, 

And  set  the  loved-one  free, 
Have  cried,  "  Come  forth  !  "  and  lo  !  again, 
To  smite  the  hearts  and  eyes  of  men 
With  the  old  awe  he  once  instill'd 
By  many  an  unforgotten  field, 
Napoleon's  look  shall  startle  day— 

That  look  that,  where  its  anger  fell, 
Scorch'd  empires  from  the  earth  away 

As  with  the  blasts  of  hell  ! 
Up  from  the  dust,  ye  sleepers!  ho  ! 

By  the  blue  Danube's  stately  wave. 
From  Berlin's  towers,  from  Moscow's  snow. 

And  Windsor's  gorgeous  grave  ! 
Come,  summoned  by  the  omnific  power. 
The  spirit  of  this  thrilling  hour  ; 
And,  stooping  from  yon  craggy  height, 
Girt  by  each  perish'd  satellite, 
Each  cunning  tool  of  kingly  terror, 
Who  served  your  reigns  of  fraud  and  error, 
Behold,  where  with  relentless  lock 
Ye  chain'd  Prometheus  to  his  rock  ; 
And,  when  his  tortured  bosom  ceased 
Your  vulture's  savage  beak  to  feast, 
Where  fathom-deep  ye  dug  his  cell. 

And  built  and  barr'd  his  coffin  down, 
Half  doubting  if  even  death  could  quell 

Such  terrible  renown  ; 
Now  'mid  the  torch's  solemn  glare', 
And  bended  knee:,  and  muttered  prayer. 
Within  that  green  sepulchral  glen 
l/ncover'd  groups  of  warrior  men 


516  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Breathless  performed  the  high  behest 
Of  winning  back,  in  priceless  trust 

For  the  regenerated  West, 
Your  victim's  mighty  dust. 

Hark  !  how  they  burst  your  cramps  and  rings  ! 

Ha,  ha  !  ye  bandied,  baffled  kings! 

Stout  men,  delve  on  with  axe  and  bar  ! 
Ye  're  watched  from  yonder  restless  star ; 
Hew  the  tough  masonry  away, 

Bid  the  tomb's  ponderous  portals  fly  ! 
And  firm  your  sounding  levers  sway, 

And  loud  your  clanking  hammers  ply  ! 
Nor  falter  though  the  work  be  slow. 
Ye  something  gain  at  every  blow, 
While  deep  each  heart  in  chorus  sings  : 
"  Ha,  ha  !  ye  bandied,  baffled  kings  !  " 
Brave  men,  delve  in  with  axe  and  bar  ! 
Ye  're  watched  from  yonder  glorious  star. 

'T  is  morn  ;   the  marble  floor  is  cleft, 
And  slight  and  short  the  labour  left. 
'T  is  noon  ;  they  wind  the  windlass  now, 
To  heave  the  granite  from  his  brow. 
Back  to  each  gazer's  waiting  heart 
The  life-blood  leaps  with  anxious  start; 
Down  Bertrand's  cheeks  the  tear-drop  steals, 
Low  in  the  dust  Las  Casas  kneels. 
(Oh  !   tried  and  trusted!   still,  as  long 

As  the  true  heart's  fidelity 
Shall  form  the  theme  of  harp  and  song. 

High  bards  shall  sing  of  ye!) 
One  moment,  and  thy  beams,  O  sun, 
The  bier  of  him  shall    look  upon, 
\Vho,  save  the  heaven-expelled,  alone 
Dared  envv  thee  thv   bla/.incr  throne  ! 


THE   DISINTLKMKNT.  517 

Who  haply  oft,  with  gaze  intent. 

And  sick  from  victory's  vulgar  \var. 
Panted  to  sweep  the  firmament, 

And  dash  thee  from  thy  car. 
And  cursed  the  clay  that  still  confined 
His  narrow  conquests  to  mankind. 

'T  is  done  ;  his  chiefs  are  lifting  now 
The  shroud  from  that  tremendous  br<>w, 
That  with  the  lightning's  rapid  might 
Illumed  Marcngo's  awful  night, 
Flash'd  over  Lodi's  murderous  bridge. 
Swept  Prussia  from  red  Jena's  ridge. 
And  broke  once  more  the  Austrian  sword 
By  Wagram's  memorable  ford. 
And  may  man's  puny  race  that  shook 
Before  the  terrors  of  that  look, 
Approach  unshrinking  now,  and  see 
How  far  corruption's  mastery 
Has  tamed  the  tvrant  tamer! 


Raise 

That  silken  cloud  ;   what  meets  the  ga/.e  ? 
The  scant}'  dust,  or  whitening  bones. 

Or  fleshless  jaws'  horrific  mirth. 
Of  him  whose  threshold  rose  on  thrones, 

A  mocker}'  now  to  earth  ? 
No  ;   even  as  though  his  haughty  clay 
Scoff'd  at  the  contact  of  decay. 
And  from  his  mind's  immortal  flame 
Itself  immortalised  became. 
Tranquil!}'  tin.' re  Napoleon  lies  revealed. 
Like  a  king  sleeping  on  his  own  proud  shield. 
Harnessed  for  conflict,  and  that  eagle-star, 
Whose    fire-eved    I.e'ji<>n  foremost  waked    the    war. 


5l8  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Still  on  his  bosom,  tarnished,  too,  and  dim, 
As  if  hot  battle's  cloud  had  lately  circled  him. 

Fast  fades  the  vision  ;  from  that  glen 
Wind  slow  those  aching-hearted  men, 
While  every  mountain  echo  floats, 
Filled  with  the  bugle's  regal  notes  ; 
And  now  the  gun's  redoubled  roar 

Tells  the  long  peak  and  mighty  main, 
Beneath  his  glorious  tri-colour 

Xapoleon  rests  again  ! 
And  France's  galley  soon  shall  sail, 
Shall  spread  triumphant  to  the  gale, 
Till,  lost  upon  the  lingering  eye, 
It  melts  and  mingles  in  the  sky. 

Let  Paris,  too,  prepare  a  show, 
And  deck  her  streets  in  gaudy  woe  ; 
And  rear  a  more  than  kingly  shrine, 

Whose  taper's  blaze  shall  ne'er  be  dim, 
And  bid  the  sculptor's  art  divine 

Be  lavished  there  for  him. 

And  let  him  take  his  rest  serene 
(Even  so  he  \villed  it)  by  the  Seine  ; 
But  ever  to  the  poet's  heart, 

Or  pilgrim  musing  o'er  those  pages 

I  Replete  with  marvels)  that   impart 

1 1  is  story  unto  ages  ; 
The  spacious  azure  of  yon  sea 
Alone  liis  minster  floor  shall  be, 
Coped  by  the  stars  ;   red  evening's  smile 

I 1  is  epitaph  ;   and  thou,  rude  isle, 
Austerely  browed  and  thunder-rent, 

Napoleon's  only  monument  ! 


NAPOLEON'S    RETURN. 

TlIE  voyage  from  St.  Helena  afforded  only  one  incident 
of  note.  As  the  little  fleet  bearing  the  sacred  relics  was 
about  crossing  the  equator  a  French  frigate  was  met, 
which  announced  the  startling  news  that  there  was  grave 

*->"  o 

probability  war  had  already  commenced  between  England 
and  France  over  the  Turkish-Egyptian  treaty.  It  was  at 
once  resolved  by  the  Prince  de  Joinville  and  those  under 
him  that,  if  the  news  should  prove  true,  they  would  sink 
the  vessel  carrying  the  remains  of  the  Emperor  rather 
than  surrender  them  again  to  England.  Fortunately, 
the  reported  war  cloud  passed  away,  and  France  was 
reached  in  safety.  Napoleon  was  again  with  his  own. 

A  complete  collection  of  the  poetry  written  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Napoleon's  return  from  St.  Helena  would  fill  a 
volume.  The  few  selections  which  follow  have  been 
chosen  as  best  suited  to  the  purpose  in  view. 

NA1'<M.K(  >\'s     KKTl'KX. 

Mi--    \V.\i  I.ACF. 

A  bark  has  left  the  sea-girt  isle, 

A  prince  is  at  the  helm, 
She  bears  the  exile  emperor 

Back  t<  >  his  ancient  realm. 


520  A    METKICAL  HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

No  joyous  shout  bursts  from  her  crew, 
As  o'er  the  waves  they  dance, 

But  silently,  through  foam  and  spray, 
Seek  the}'  the  shores  of  France. 

A  soldier  comes!     Haste,  comrades,  haste! 

To  greet  him  on  the  strand  ; 
'T  is  long  since  by  his  side  yc  fought 

For  Glory's  chosen  land  ; 
A  leader  comes  !      Let  loud  huzzas 

Burst  from  the  extended  line, 
And  glancing  arms  and  hemlets  raised 

In  martial  splendour  shine. 

A  conqueror  comes  !      Fly,  Austrian,  fly 

Before  his  awful  frown  ! 
Kneel,  Lombard,  kneel !  that  pallid  brow 

Has  worn  the  Iron  Crown  ! 
The  eagles  wave  !  the  trumpet  sounds! 

Amid  the  cannons'  roar. 
Ye  victors  of  a  hundred  fields, 

Surround  your  chief  once  more! 

A  monarch  comes!      From  royal  arms 

Remove  the  envious  rust  ; 
A  monarch  comes  !  the  triple  crown 

Is  freed  from  gathering  dust. 
Guard  him  not  to  the  halls  of  state, 

His  diadem  is  riven  ; 
But  bear  him  where  yon  hallowed  spire 

Is  pointing  up  to  heaven  : 
And  with  the  requiem's  plaintive  swell, 

\Yith  dirge  and  solemn  prayer, 
Knter  the  marble  halls  of  death, 

And  throne  your  monarch  there! 


NAPOLEON'S    KETUKN.  521 

Napoleon  comes  !     Go,  speak  that  word 

At  midnight's  awful  hour; 
In  Champ  dc  Mars  will  it  not  prove 

A  spell  of  fearful  power? 
Will  not  a  shadowy  host  arise 

From  field  and  mountain  ridge, 
From  Waterloo,  from  Austerlit/, 

From  Lodi's  fatal  bridge, 
And  wheel  in  airy  echelon, 

From  pass  and  height  and  plain, 
To  form  upon  that  ancient  ground 

Their  scattered  ranks  again? 

Go  speak  it  in  the  Louvre's  halls, 

'Mid  priceless  works  of  art  ; 
Will  not  each  lifelike  figure  from 

The  glowing  canvas  start  ? 
Go  to  Versailles,  where  heroes  frown, 

And  monarchs  live,  in  stone  ; 
Across  those  chiselled  lips  will  not 

A  startling  murmur  run  ? 
No,  no,  the  marble  still  may  be 
Cold,  cold  and  silent.     So  is  he. 
The  pencil's  living  hues  may  bloom, 
But  his  have  faded  in  the  tomb; 
And  warriors  in  their  narrow  homes 
Sleep,  reckless  that  their  leader  conies. 

Napoleon  comes!   but  Rhine's  pure  flood 
Rolls  on  without  a  tinge  of  -blood  ; 
The  Pyramids  still  frown  in  gloom 
And  grandeur  o'er  an  empty  tomb  ; 
And  sweetly  now  the  moonbeam  smiles 
Upon  the  fair  Venetian  isles. 


522  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Napoleon  comes  !  but  Moscow's  spires 
Have  ceased  to  glow  with  hostile  fires  ; 
No  spirit,  in  a  whisper  deep, 
Proclaims  it  where  the  Caesars  sleep ; 
No  sign  from  column,  tower,  or  dome, — 
A  man  that  once  was  feared  at  Rome, — 
For  life  and  power  have  passed  away, 
And  he  is  here,  a  king  of  clay. 

He  will  not  wake  at  war's  alarms, 

Its  music  or  its  moans; 
He  will  not  wake  when  Europe  hears 

The  crash  of  crumbling  thrones 
And  institutions  gray  with  age 

Are  numbered  with  forgotten  things, 
And  privilege  and  "  right  divine  " 

Rest  with  the  people,  not  their  kings. 

Now  raise  the  imperial  monument, 
Fame's  tribute  to  the  brave  ; 

The  warrior's  place  of  pilgrimage 
Shall  be  Napoleon's  grave. 

France,  envving  long  his  island  tomb 

'  ^  O  O 

Amid  the  lonely  deep, 
Has  gained  at  last  the  treasured  dust  ! 
Sleep  !  mighty  mortal,  sleep! 


THE  SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  of  November  30,  1840,  the  Belle 
Panic  and  the  Favourite  anchored  in  the  harbour  of  Cher- 
bourg :  where,  on  the  eighth  of  December,  the  remains  of 
the  might}-  dead  were  transferred  -from  the  Belle  Panic  to 
the  steamer  Normandie,  and  from  whence  the  voyage  up 
the  Seine  began.  At  Havre  the  body  was  again  trans- 
ferred to  the  smaller  vessel  especially  prepared  t«  carry 
the  dead  Emperor  to  the  gates  of  Paris.  The  journey  up 
the  Seine  was  a  series  of  continued  ovations  and  demon- 
strations of  welcome.  The  people  for  miles  around 
(locked  to  the  river  to  greet  and  to  pay  homage  t<>  the 
remains  of  the  man  who  had  done  so  much  for  them  and 
for  their  country  in  the  days  of  his  power.  (  )n  the  four- 
teenth the  flotilla.  Consisting  of  twelve  vessel.^,  reached 
Courbevoie,  a  small  village  about  four  miles  from  Paris. 
Here  the  remains  were  transferred  from  the  steamer  to 
the  shore.  The  preparations  for  receiving  the  illustrious 
dead,  and  for  escorting  the  "  Emperor  Napoleon"  to  his 
last  resting  place  were  of  a  kind  unparalleled  in  history. 
The  story  of  the  Second  Funeral  ha-;  been  told  so  many 
times,  in  poetry  and  in  prose,  that  it  were  idle  t<»  repeat 
it,  in  detail,  here.  The  fifteenth  of  December,  1840.  was 
a  dav  such  as  Paris  never  before-  or  ever  a-jain  >ha!i  wit- 


524  -4    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

ness.  The  entire  population  of  the  city  took  part  in  the 
celebration,  for  celebration  it  truly  was.  Over  one 
hundred  thousand  soldiers  were  present  on  this  great 
national  occasion.  The  vete'rans  of  the  armies  of  Italy 
and  of  Egypt,  of  Spain  and  of  Russia, — heroes  of  the 
Pyramids,  Marengo,  Austerlitz,  Jena,  Wagram,  Moscow, 
and  Waterloo, — were  there  to  welcome  their  dead  chief. 
Every  member  of  the  reigning  family  was  at  the  Inva- 
lides  ;  but  the  dead  warrior  alone  represented  his  family. 
Visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world  were  in  Paris.  All 
were  free  to  come,  except  the  brothers  and  nephews  of 
him  to  whose  memory  these  honours  were  paid  ;  they 
were  still  proscribed, — in  exile  or  in  prison. 

The  following  poem,  by  an  unknown  author,  tells  the 
story  of  the  Second  Funeral  in  a  clear  and  graphic 
manner : 

THE   SECOND    FUNERAL   OF   NAPOLEON. 

A  NUN. 

Cold  and  brilliant  streams  the  sunlight  on  the  wintry  banks 

of  Seine, 
Gloriously  the  imperial  city  rears  her  pride  of  tower  and 

fane  ; 
Solemnly,  with    dec})    voice,    pealeth    Notre    Dame,  thine 

ancient  chime, 
Minute   guns   the    death-bell    answer    in    the    same    deep, 

measured  time. 

On  the  unwonted  stillness   gather  sounds  of  an  advancing 

host, 
As  the  rising  tempest  chafeth  on  St.  1  Iclen's  far-off  coast  ; 


THE    SECOND    FUNERAL    OF  XArOLF.OX.  525 

» 
Nearer  rolls  a  mighty   pageant,  clearer  swells  the  funeral 

strain, 
From  the  barrier  arch  of   Xeuilly  pours  the  giant  burial 

train. 

Dark  with  eagles  is  the  sunlight,  darkly  on  the  golden  air 

Flap  the  folds  of  faded  standards;  eloquently  mourning 
there, 

O'er  the  pomp  of  glittering  thousands,  like  a  battle-phan- 
tom flits 

Tatter'd  flag  of  Jena,  Friedland,  Arcola,  and  Austerlit/.. 

Eagle-crowu'd     anil     garland-circled,    slowly     moves     the 

stately  car, 
'Mid  a  sea  of  plumes  and  horsemen,  all   the  burial   pomp 

of  war  ; 
Riderless,  a  war-worn  charger   follows   his  dead    master's 

bier- 
Long  since  battle-trumpet   roused    him   -he  but    lived    to 

f>  >llow  here. 

From   his   grave  'mid    ocean's   dirges,  moaning   surge  and 

sparkling  foam, 
Lo,  the    Imperial    Dead    returneth  !     Lo,  the    Hero's   dust 

Comes  home  ! 

1  Ie  hath  left  the  Atlantic  island,  lonely  vale  and  \\  illow  tree, 
'N'eath  the  Jnvalides  to  slumber,  'mill  the  (Jallic  ("hivalry. 

(jlorious   tomb  o'er   glorious    sleepers!    gall, ml    fellowship 

to  share 
Paladin  ami  Peer  and    Marshal       France,  thy  noblest   dust 

is  there  ! 
Names  that   light  thy  battle  annals  !      Names   that    shook 

the  heart  of  earth  ! 
Stars    in    crimson  War's    hori/.oii      synonym-;    for    martial 

worth  ! 


526  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

4 

Room  within  that  shrine  of  heroes  !    place,   pale   spectres 

of  the  past ! 
Homage  yield,  ye  battle-phantoms  !     Lo,  your  mightiest 

comes  at  last  ! 
Was  his  course  the  Woe   out-thunder'd   from   prophetic 

trumpet's  lips  ? 
Was    his   type    the    ghostly    horseman    shadow'd    in  the 

Apocalypse  ? 

Gray-hair'd  soldiers  gather  round  him,  relics  of  an  age  of 

war, 
Followers  of  the  Victor-Eagle,  when   his    flight  was  wild 

and  far  ; 
Men  who  panted   in  the  death-strife  on  Rodrigo's  bloody 

ridge, 
Hearts  that  sicken'd  at  the  death-shriek  from  the  Russian's 

shatter'd  bridge. 

Men  who  heard  the  immortal  war-cry  of  the  wild  Egyptian 

fight : 
"  Forty  centuries  o'erlook    us   from   yon    Pyramid's   gray 

height." 
They  who  heard   the  moans   of  Jaffa,  and   the   breach  of 

Acre  knew, 
They  who  rushed  their  foaming  war-steeds  on  the  squares 

of  Waterloo — 

They  who  loved   him,  they  who   fear'd    him,  they  who    in 

his  dark  hour  fled, 
Round  the  mighty  burial  gather,  spell-bound  by  the  awful 

Dead  ! 
Churchmen,  1'rinces,  Statesmen,  Warriors,  all  a  kingdom's 

chief  array, 
And   the   Fox  stands,  crowned   Mourner,   by  the  Eagle's 

hero-clay. 


THE    SECOND   EL' \EKAL    OF  NAPOLEOK.  527 

But  the  last  high  rite  is  paid  him,  and  the  last  deep  knell 
is  rung, — 

And  the  cannons'  iron  voices  have  their  thunder-requiem 
sung— 

And  'mid  banners  icily  drooping,  silent  gloom  and  moul- 
dering state, 

Shall  the  Trampler  of  the  world  upon  the  Judgment- 
trumpet  wait. 

Yet  his  ancient    foes  had    given    him  nobler  monumental 

pile, 
Where  the  everlasting   dirges   moan'd    around    the  burial 

Isle- 
Pyramid  upheaved  by  Ocean  in  his  loneliest  wilds  afar. 
For  the  War-King  thunder-stricken   from  his  fiery  battle- 
car  ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON  FROM  ST. 
HELENA. 

As  Thackeray  has  given  us,  in  prose,  his  version  of 
what  he  saw  at  the  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  and 
how  the  whole  arrangement  impressed  him  ;  so  Mrs. 
Sigourney  has  told  us,  in  poetry,  of  what  she  beheld  on 
that  occasion,  and  how  it  all  impressed  her. 

THE    KKTUKX    OF   XAPOI.KOX    FROM  ST.  JIKLKNA. 

I.YDIA     II.     SlCOURNEY. 

I  lo  !  city  of  the  gay  ! 

Paris  !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 

All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fixed  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-day. 

Hy  square  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise  ; 
And  tower  and  battlement  and   tree 

Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  triumph  from  the  fight, 
\Yith  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 

=  23 


RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON  EROM  S7\  HELENA.         529 

The  "  Arc  de  Triomphe  "  glows  ! 

A  martial  host  arc  nigh  ! 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 
Xo  clarion   marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown  ; 
Why  inarch  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone? 

Behold  !   in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state  ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  <>f  gold. 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight  ; 
And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 

Caparisoned  along, 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  a>k, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

\Vho  rideth  on  yon  car? 

The  incense  flameth  high. 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old  ? 

Xo  answer  !   no   reply  ! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

Xo  shout  his  minions  raise. 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays. 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And,  with  uncovered  head. 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France  : 

Receiveth  whom?      The  dead  ' 
Was  lie  not  buried  deep 

In  island  cavern  drear. 
(iirt  by  the   sounding  ocean  surge  ." 

llo\\-  came  that  -leeper  here  .' 


530  A    METRICAL   HISTORY   OF  NAPOLEON. 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 

Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 
That  thus  he  brake  his  stony  tomb, 

Ere  the  strong  angel's  call? 
Hark  !      Hark  !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain  ! 
An  echo  never  to  be  heard 

By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew — 
The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crushed  at  Waterloo  ; 
The  banished  who  returned, 

The  dead  who  rose  again, 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud. 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 

They  laid  him  there  in  state, 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold  — 
The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 

Upon  his  ashes  cold  ; 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazoned  banners  wave, 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave. 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 

His  veterans  scarred  and  old, 
Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge, 

Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 
Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 
Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 

Those  veterans  <rrim  and  <n~av. 


RE  TURN  OF  NAPOLEON  FROM  S7\  HELENA.         5  3  I 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife, 

Where  their  country's  legions  fled  ? 
Of  Borodino's  blood  ? 

Of  Beresina's  \vail  ? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turned  old  History  pale? 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

\\\-  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Marked  the  poor  conscripts'  grave. 
And,  pierced  by  frost  and    famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 

The  gathered  darkness  mock. 
And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 

On  bare  Helena's  rock; 
Ami  from  the  altar  near, 

A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 

Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  One,  and  proud  ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  Hocking  ghosts  of  those 

\Vho  at  thy  nod  were  slain.-' 
Oh  !   when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host. 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them.' 

And  what  tin-  (iod's  to  tlu-e  ? 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THE 
EMPEROR. 

"  Till-:  return  of  the  dead  Napoleon  to  his  capital  has 
excited  an  interest  scarcely  inferior  to  that  which  shook 
the  world  at  his  return  from  Elba.  Poets  have  chosen  it 
as  the  theme  of  their  loftiest  flights  ;  orators  catch  new 
eloquence  from  its  inspiration  ;  politicians  shake  their 
heads  and  talk  mysteriously  of  consequences  which  will — 
not  come  to  pass.  But  among  the  numerous  productions 
to  which  this  sublime  event  has  given  rise,  none  is  more 
remarkable  than  the  Invocation  penned  by  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon  in  his  prison.  The  original  is  not  in  verse,  but 
it  is  rich  with  the  higher  elements  of  poetry,  which  we 
trust  will  be  recognised  in  the  spirited  version  of  our 
young  correspondent.  \Yith  the  political  opinions  and 
views  of  the  Prince  we  have  nothing  to  do.  That  he  is 
wanting  in  common  prudence  is  pretty  generally  con- 
ceded ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  are  indications  'that 
he  possesses  genius  of  a  high  order,  and  which,  directed 
to  literary  pursuits,  might  insure  him  a  more  extensive 
empire  in  the  minds  of  men  than  he  has  any  prospect  of 
ever  exercising  with  sword  or  sceptre.  1 1  is  speech  on  his 
trial,  though  deficient  in  reasoning,  is  a  masterpiece  of 
eloquence;  and  the  same  quality  is  conspicuous  in  all  his 
writings." 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  SHADE  Of-'  THE  EMPEROR.       533 

Events  which  have  transpired  in  France  since  the  above 
was  written,  prove  how  often  contemporary  opinions  of 
men  and  things  differ  from  what  is  actually  to  happen. 
The  "  Nephew  of  his  Uncle  "  did  reign  in  France  as 
Emperor  for  twenty  years,  and  he  proved  himself  capable 
of  doing  something  besides  being  a  literary  genius. 


INVOCATION    TO    THE    SIFADK    OF   THE    EMPEROR. 
(By  Prince  Louis  Napoleon.) 

Translated  by  JAMKS  NACK. 

Hail,  sire  !  thou  to  thy  cherished  France, 
Again  in  triumph  dost  advance, 
While  old  and  young,  with  song  and  shout, 
To  welcome  thee  are  thronging  out  ; 
And  all  but  those  who  share  thy  name 
The  precious  privilege  may  claim 
To  cluster  round  the  sacred  bed 
That  bears  the  mightiest  of  the  dead  ! 
But  I,  deep  in  a  dungeon's  gloom, 
Less  welcome  far  than  glory's  tomb; 
Oh,  scarce  on  me  one  ray  may   fall 
That  lights  thy  gorgeous  funeral  ! 

Chief  of  our  house  -  and  ol  mankind  — 
Oh,  let  us  not  thy  censure  find, 
If  none  of  the  imperial  line 
Attends  thee  to  thy  final  shrine! 
Thy  exile  and  thy  every  pain 
Closed  with  thv  life      hut  ours  remain 


534  A    METRICAL   HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Far  from  thy  friends  and  from  thy  land, 
And  far  from  every  kindred  hand  ; 
No  wife  to  breathe  affection's  sighs, 
No  son  to  close  thy  awful  eyes  ; 
From  Helen's  rock  and  England's  rod 
Thy  injured  spirit  rushed  to  God  ! 

The  hero,  through  all  perils  tried, 
Whose  love  thy  absent  son's  supplied, 
Montholon,  once  thy  prison-mate, 
No\v  shares  a  humbler  captive's  fate. 
Alas  !  how  can  they  honour  thee, 
Nor  set  thy  faithful  veteran  free  ! 

Returning  to  thy  cherished  shore, 
To  reign  till  time  shall  be  no  more  ; 
When  every  ship  and  fort  unfurled 
The  tri-colour  that  won  the  world, 
A  moment's  life  again  was  given, 
As  with  electric  fire  from  heaven. 
Thy  marble  head  a  moment  raised  ; 
Thine  eyes,  unlocked,  a  moment  gazed  ; 
But  on  their  view  no  eagle  came, 
Winging  its  flight  to  Notre-Dame  ! 
They  sought  some  kindred  face  in  vain, 
Then  sadly  closed  to  sleep  again. 

Yet  not  till  passed  before  their  glance 
The  youthful  chivalry  of  France, 
Whose  fathers,  as  it  is  their  pride 
To  boast,  have  battled  at  thy  side  ; 
Xor  should'st  thou  deem  the  father's  fire 
So  soon  can  in  the  sons  expire  ; 
Though  every  sword  sleeps  in  its  sheath, 
For  thoughts  may  burn  that  may  not  breathe 


INVOCATION   TO  THE  SHADE  Of  TI1K  EMTEROK.       535 

And  while  the  dazzling  phantom  flits, 
Of  Jena,  or  of  Austerlitz  ; 
The  flower  of  France  must  hail  the  sun 
Of  glory  in  Napoleon  ! 

Hut  as  for  those  whom  thou  hast  seen 
So  great,  and  findest  now  so  mean, 
Whose  greatness  was  upon  them  thrown 
By  thee — whose  meanness  is  their  own  — 
Those  who  renounce  with  shameless  face 
Thy  creed,  thy  glory,  and  thy  race, 
Who  when  I  sought  them,  in  thy  name, 
Invoking  liberty  and  fame, 
Could  tell  me  and  the  outraged  land, 
''  These  are  not  things  we  understand  ! 

Oh  heed  them  not  though  they  should  say, 
Nor  their  renown  has  pass'd  away, 
That  thine  was  but  a  meteor's  light, 
Which  hastens  to  oblivion's  night. 
'T  is  not  for  such  to  harm  thy  name, 
And  only  such  could  wrong  thy  fame, 
Whose  bright  immortal  heritage 
Shall  crown  thy  race  in  every  age  ! 

A  memorable  day  shall  be 

'1  his  day,  alike  to  France  and  me  ! 

While  pomp  and  pageantry  and  pride 

Surround  thy  bier  on  every  side, 

Thy  glance  is  turned  where,  walled  in  stone 

And  darkness,  friendless  and  alone, 

Reclines  thy  brother's  favourite  child, 

On  whom  thy  face  benignly  smiled, 

When,  young  and    fearless,  fond  and  free, 

He  clun<_r  about   thv  honoured   knee! 


536  A    METRICAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Yet  even  here  I  may  rejoice  ; 

There  comes  a  whisper  of  thy  voice, 

The  silent  solitude  to  break : 

"  My  friend,  thy  wrongs  are  for  my  sake, 

And  I  approve  what  thou  hast  done 

For  France  and  for  Napoleon  !  " 


NAPOLEON. 

UNDER  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  Napoleon  sleeps  ; 
never,  in  all  human  probability,  to  be  again  disturbed. 
Surrounded  by  the  gallant  warriors  who  made  his  won- 
derful fame  possible,  he  is  at  rest  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  his  last  earthly  wish  fulfilled.  The  impress  he  left 
upon  France  and  the  world  will  endure  while  time  lasts. 
He  has  been  judged  by  many  able  critics,  and  the  verdict 
has  been  both  for  and  against  him.  That  he  was  one  of 
the  greatest  men  who  ever  lived,  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion. Whether  he  used  the  mighty  genius,  with  which  he 
was  endowed,  for  the  good  of  France  and  of  mankind,  or 
whether  the  satisfying  of  his  personal  ambition  was  the 
only  end  he  had  in  view,  are  questions  still  unsettled.  We 
are  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  yet  unwritten  history 
of  Napoleon  will  be  the  true  one,  and  that  the  verdict 
yet  to  come  will  accord  to  him  the  place  given  him  in  the 
following  lines  : 


There  be  who  call  thce  Tyrant,  and  would   fain 
The  hateful  word  upon  thy  tomb  engrave  ; 
And  others  yet  there  be  who  name  thee  .-lav 

Of  power  and  mad  ambition,  and  would  stain 


538  A    METRICAL    HISTORY   OF  XAPOI.EOX. 

Thy  memory  with  avarice,  lust,  and  crime, 

And  to  the  keeping  of    all  coming  time 
Hand  down  the  lie.     But  thou  wast  none  of  such  ; 

But  Freedom's  chosen  minister.     The  world 
Had  need  that  one  like  thee  should  touch 

Its    withered    heart  ;    and   when   old  thrones  were 

hurled 
Beneath  thy  feet,  and  kings  did  prostrate  fall, 

And  crowns  were  harvested  to  grace  thy  brow, 
Man  was  the  winner.     Let  who  doubts,  recall 

What  Europe  was,  and  mark  what  it  is  now. 


THE    END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  RtGJONA 


A    001  440  747 


